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AFTER MANY YEARS 


A Novel 



ROBERT BOGGS 



NEW YORK 

THE AUTHORS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY 
Bond Street 


. PP/) ! 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by 
THE AUTHORS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


CONTENTS, 


VOL. L 

CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. — What two old people got for their Christmas 5 

II . — The artist 15 

III. — Sowing the seed 23 

IV. — Alford relates the story of his early life 55 

V. — Alford continues the story of his early life ; . . 66 

VI. — Alford concludes the story of his early life 72 

VII. — Let us go to Rome 81 

VIII. — Alford begins his acquaintance with Mrs. and Miss 

Weston go 

IX. — Oliver’s progress 99 

X. — Oliver’s progress and prospects 105 

XI. — ^James Alford finds a living woman more attractive 

than dead gods and goddesses 114 

XII. — Alford enjoys social pleasures 123 

XIII. — Towling’s luck 131 

XIV. — Oliver in Baltimore 139 

XV. — Schneiderfest 146 

XVI. — Bohemia. 162 

XVII. — A great misfortune 180 

XVIII. — A night in the Castle of St. Angelo 192 

XIX. — The old prisoner of St. Angelo 203 

XX. — Homeward bound 212 

XXL — Alford succeeds as a portrait painter 222 

XXII. — Exit David Maxwell 233 

VOL. II. 

I. — At sea 241 

II. — “ Oh, give thanks unto the Lord ; for he is good : for 

his mercy endureth forever.” 251 

(iii) 


iv CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER. PAGE. 

III. — Correspondence 259 

IV. — Clarissa misses her friends 264 

V. — Mr. Hapton unveils some sad recollections 268 

VI. — Clarissa’s discovery 274 

VII. — Further extracts from Clarissa’s diary 279 

VIII. — Further extracts from Clarissa’s diary 285 

IX. — Letter from Sylvia 290 

X. — Extracts from Clarissa’s diary 295 

XI. — Sylvia 301 

XII. — Oliver Maxwell finds his ideal, and a great traveller 

finds that there is something pleasanter than travel. 309 

XIII. — Monsieur Pince 316 

XIV. — Adventures of Alford and Monsieur Pince 323 

XV. — Adventures of Alford and Monsieur Pince, con- 
tinued 328 

XVI. — Adventures of Alford and Monsieur Pince, con- 
tinued 335 

XVII. — Aunt Polly 342 

XVIII. — Adventures of Alford and Monsieur Pince, con- 
tinued 350 

XIX. — Adventures of Alford and Monsieur Pince, con- 
cluded 360 

XX. — Christmas in Rome 373 

XXL — Aunt Polly’s Dorcas Society 381 

XXII. — A repentant sinner 388 

XXIII. — The Carnival 398 

XXIV. — Retrospective 407 

XXV. — Divers matters pertaining to our story 414 

XXVI. — The return to Rome, and a letter from Alford 424 

XXVII. — Fire and ashes 427 

XXVIII. — Approaching the end 434 

XXIX. — After many days 443 

XXX. — Conclusion 451 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


VOLUME I. 


CHAPTER I. 

WHAT TWO OLD PEOPLE GOT FOR THEIR CHRISTMAS. 

Christmas morning i8 — had dawned clear and bright. 
A little snow had fallen during the night — just enough to 
make it look as though Nature had decked herself out with 
white favors in honor of the day. It was crisp and cold, 
and the roaring, crackling fire in farmer Maxwell's great 
wide-mouthed chimney was a pleasant thing to look upon 
and a comfort to sit by. The farmer himself seemed to 
think so, at any rate, as he sat in his accustomed corner 
reading his Bible, while his good wife busied herself laying 
the table for breakfast, which was being prepared in the 
kitchen by Elsie Brown, their only servant. 

David and Betsey Maxwell were a lonely old couple — that 
is, there were no children to bless their hearth-stone (just 
imagine a Christmas without children, if you can), and their 
home appeared particularly desolate on this day above all 
others — this day which seems to be connected with the little 
ones in an especially marked and blessed association ; Christ- 
mas Day, the one day of all others in the year, when our 
Lord took upon Himself humanity, and became a little child 
for the sake of us poor mortals. 

The worthy farmer and his wife did not murmur at the 
dispensation of Providence that had left them childless in 
their old age ; but still their hearts yearned with an inex- 
pressible yearning for the sound of those merry voices and 
ever restless, pattering feet which gladdened other homes. 

Breakfast being ready, the three members of the house- 
hold seated themselves at the table, but they had hardly 
tasted a morsel when they were interrupted by a gentle rap 
on the cottage door. 


6 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


'‘Who in the world can that be, Davy?’’ said Betsey, 
looking at her husband as though she thought he ought to 
know more about the matter than herself. 

" I can’t guess, I’m sure,” replied David, ” unless it be 
the school-master come with his usual Christmas greeting, 
though it’s early for him. If it is Mr. Dinning, Elsie,” he 
called after the maid, who had gone to answer the summons, 
” tell him to come in and have a bit of breakfast.” 

A moment after Elsie called to her master pretty much as 
she would have done if they had been a quarter of a mile 
apart. ” Come here, Mr. Maxwell, if you please ; you be 
wanted here.” 

The master of the house arose and went to the front door, 
followed by his wife, whose curiosity would not permit her 
to remain the sole one ignorant of what was going on. 

” Good-morning, Mr. Maxwell,” said a woman who stood 
talking to Elsie,* while she held two little children by their 
hands, upon whom Miss Brown was bestowing both looks 
and words of the greatest admiration. 

” Good-morning, marm,” said Maxwell, looking at her 
inquiringly ; ” did you wish to see me ? But you had bet- 
ter come in if you have any business with me — it is cold 
standing here in the wind.” 

“Thank ye,” responded the stranger, “but I have no 
particular business with you, and am in somewhat of a 
hurry. I only troubled you to ask as a great favor that you 
will let these two little ones remain in your house until my 
return from the village down yonder ; I have some little 
matters to attend to there, and do not care to drag them 
about with me, for I fear the fatigue and cold would be too 
much for them.” 

“ Certainly, marm, certainly,” said the farmer, while his 
wife and Elsie Brown each pounced upon one of the chil- 
dren with delighted looks. “ The weather is too cold, and 
the walk much too long, for two such delicate babes as they 
seem to be.” 

“ Thank ye, sir, thank ye for your kindness,” replied the 
woman hurriedly ; and looking towards the village, she 
added, “ you may look for my return — well, I can’t say ex- 
actly when ; but I suppose that makes no difference. Good- 
by, Sylvia ; good-by, Oliver : be good children.” 

There was a slight tremor in her voice, and a tear or two 
dropped upon the snow when she stooped over to kiss 
them, but no one noticed her emotion, and she hurried 
away without once casting a look behind. 

The two women carried their welcome visitors into the 


TWO OLD PEOPLE, 


7 


house, while David Maxwell stood watching the receding 
figure of their guardian until it disappeared behind a clump 
of trees, when he turned to go back to his unfinished meal. 
Just as he was about to enter the door, a sudden thought 
seemed to occur to him, and stopping, he looked earnestly 
up and down the road and about in every direction. 

‘‘ Strange,” he muttered to himself. ” How could two 
such mere infants have come here afoot ? — and where could 
they have come from ?” and he shook his head dubiously 
as he cast another glance around. ” But she was a decent- 
looking body, with an honest face — if ever I saw one,” he 
added reassuringly. ” Irish, I think, though one would 
hardly detect it from her speech. ” 

He seemed but half satisfied, however, when he resumed 
his seat at the breakfast table, at which the two little stran- 
gers were already placed, and being waited upon by Mrs. 
Maxwell and Elsie Brown, who seemed to think that they 
ought to have the aj)petites of farm laborers, if one might 
judge by the quantities of tempting viands they heaped 
upon their plates. 

” O my little beauties !” exclaimed the good dame, as 
she ceased her kind offices of hospitality for a moment, to 
bestow a hearty smack on the objects of her admiration. 
” O my little beauties ! Did one ever see two such sweet, 
dainty chicks ? Look, Davy, old man, how exactly alike 
they are — and almost of a size.” 

” Twins, I suppose,” said David, who had been regard- 
ing them curiously. 

” And so they be, so they be. I'll be bound,” said his 
wife, standing in front of them with her arms folded, bob- 
bing her head up and down, and smiling complacently as 
she looked at them. ” What do you think, Elsie Brown ?” 

‘‘I know’d it from the fust,” said Elsie, manifesting 
some pride in her superior discernment; “leastways, I 
know'd there wasn’t mor’n a month or two’s dif’rence in 
their ages, an’ I know’d they was brother an’ sister, for just 
look at them great big brown eyes, just adzactly alike, an’ 
them ches’nut curls ; why you mout mix ’em together an* 
you’d never know one from t’other.” 

“ Why, Elsie, how you talk !” said her mistress, looking 
at her in amazement. “ Who ever heard of a month or 
two’s difference in the ages of a brother and sister ?” 

Elsie’s pride of intellect was suddenly taken out of her 
by this appeal, and she hadn’t a word more to say. 

The little ones accepted all the caresses and good things 
b^c7towed upon them in silence ; but their smiling faces 


8 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


showed how pleased they were with such treatment, and 
while they were busy satisiying their appetites — sharpened, 
probably, by the early journey which they had made — their 
hosts made no effort to engage them in conversation. Little 
by little, however, after they had finished eating, the farmer 
and his wife persuaded them into talkativeness, and, as 
usual with children, when the gag of timidity was once taken 
off their tongues, those organs of communication ran glibly 
enough. 

They didn’t have any papa or mamma now, they said, but 
they had had once ; to prove which strange phenomenon of 
nature, Sylvia exhibited an old-fashioned locket which she 
wore around her neck, and which contained likenesses of a 
lady and gentleman. 

‘‘ Weren’t they pretty ?” she asked ; “ and isn’t Ollie like 
papa ?’ ’ 

The likeness of both of them to the gentleman was indeed 
very striking, and they seemed delighted when told so, 
though they probably had heard the same thing often before. 
Sylvia, however, insisted that she must be like mamma, too ; 
the wish evidently being father to the thought, for the lady 
was fair, with blue eyes and bright golden hair. 

“ And where do you live, my dears ?” asked David. 

‘'Oh! we live a longways from here,” replied Oliver, 
opening his eyes very wide, to express his idea of a great 
distance. 

” With your uncle, I suppose ?” 

” Uncle !” said the boy with a look of wonder ; ” what’s 
that ?” 

” Why, your papa’s brother.” 

” Our papa never had any brother,” replied the child. 
” I’m Sylvia’s brother, you know ; but our papa never 
had any ; did he, Sylvy ?” 

” N — o,” said Sylvia, shaking her head, while she looked 
very serious and wise ; ” our papa never had any.” 

” Nor sister neither ?” continued the farmer. 

” N — o,” replied Oliver, though rather dubiously, as 
though the idea had just occurred to him that there might 
possibly be a sister in the case. 

” I’m Ollie’s sister, ain’t I, Ollie ?” said Sylvia proudly. 

” A body would know that without being told,” said the 
farmer, smiling. ” But who do you live with, then ?” 

” With Mistress Margaret, who came here with us,” cried 
Sylvia, seemingly astonished at such lamentable ignorance, 
” in a little house, with a little garden, where lots of sour 
grass grows — and it’s so nice — and a little duck pore 


TWO OLD PEOPLE, 


9 


where — oh ! don't duckses swim nice !” she suddenly ex- 
claimed, clapping her rosy hands ; and then the two went 
off into glowing descriptions of the live-stock appertaining 
to Mistress Margaret’s diminutive establishment, and it 
seemed as though they would never tire of so interesting a 
topic. 

At, last, however, having fairly exhausted the subject of 
natural history as understood by them. Maxwell succeeded 
in bringing them back to the former theme of conversa- 
tion. 

It seemed that Mistress Margaret had had charge of them 
as far back as they could remember, treating them with in- 
variable kindness, for which they repaid her with that sin- 
cere and unselfish affection so beautiful in children, where 
the childish nature is unwarped by worldliness, which it 
sometimes learns from those who are intrusted with its 
training. 

They had left home, they said, in a carriage the day pre- 
vious, and had stayed at a farm-house all night, whence 
they resumed their journey at daybreak. When they had 
arrived within about a mile of David Maxwell’s place — as 
near as he could judge by their description — they had 
alighted from the carriage and walked the rest of the way. 

When they had finished their narrative, which they had 
told in the disjointed way usual with children, Elsie Brown 
took them out to initiate them into the mysteries of the farm- 
yard, while the farmer sat thoughtfully turning over the inci- 
dents connected with their advent in his mind, and wonder- 
ing why the woman had left the carriage and come to his 
door afoot. When his wife, who had left the room at the 
same time with Elsie and the little ones, returned, she found 
him in this mood. 

“ Hey, Davy !” she exclaimed, “ what’s the matter, old 
man ? You look as if the rust had got in the wheat, or the 
cholera among the hogs.” 

” I don’t half like the looks of this thing, Betsey,” he re- 
plied, shaking his head. 

“What are you talking about, Davy? What is it you 
don’t like the looks of ?” 

“ These children — ” began David ; but his wife did not 
give him a chance to finish what he was going to say. 

“ My gracious !” she exclaimed, “ did ever anybody hear 
such nonsense. Don’t like the looks of those two beautiful 
little darlings ! Why, bless the man ! if they don’t suit him, 
an angel from heaven wouldn’t be likely to.” 
u “ But — ” put in David. He was much slower, however, 


lo 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


in the use of his tongue than his spouse, and she inter- 
rupted him again at the first word. 

“ Don’t say it again, Davy dear,” she said. ” Two 
sweeter, prettier, lovelier cherubs I never laid eyes on, and 
if I could have given you two such babes I would now be 
the happiest woman alive.” 

” But you mistake,” said David, in a tone which showed 
he was determined to have his say out this time at any rate, 
” you mistake, Betsy. I’m not talking about the looks of 
the children — they’re all well enough as far as looks go — 
but I’m thinking of the way they came here.” 

” Well, what of that ?” asked Betsey. ” It seems natural 
enough to me : the woman didn’t wish to drag such babies 
about with her, tiring them to death, so she left them at the 
first house she came to.” 

” But why should she come so far in a carriage and then 
get out and walk a mile in the cold ? Why should she not 
have driven up to the door, or gone straight on in the car- 
riage and kept them with her ? I don’t know how this all 
looks to you, but, I must confess, it puzzles me.” 

And it seemed to puzzle Betsey Maxwell too, when her 
husband had, as it were, turned her mental eyes in the same 
direction that his own were looking, for she suddenly be- 
came very thoughtful. 

” I shall go down to the village,” continued David, pick- 
ing up his hat, ” and see what I can find out about this 
woman.” 

“You will be like to meet the schoolmaster,” said his 
wife. 

“ If I do, I will tell him to come on to the farm, and you 
can keep him here till I return. I shan’t be gone long.” 

“ I hope you will not,” responded Betsey, “ for you have 
set me to thinking in a curious way, and I’ll be anxious to 
hear whatever you may learn about her.” 

David Maxwell’s farm was situated in a beautiful valley 
formed by two ranges of quite lofty hills, which ran parallel 
to each other east and west, so that when the sun rose in the 
morning, his first rosy rays came dancing down the little 
stream which meandered along, 

“ With many a curve, . . . 

By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow.** 

About a mile farther down the valley was the village of 
Atwell, and a quarter of a mile nearer the school-house, 
which stood in a grove of magnificent trees, and was pre- 


TWO OLD PEOPLE. 


1 1 

sided over by Addison Dinning, whose little cottage of two 
rooms and a closet was close at hand. 

The farmer walked thoughtfully along, and would not 
have noticed that he was passing the school-master’s dwell- 
ing had not his attention been attracted by the learned gen- 
tleman himself. 

“ Good-morning, neighbor Maxwell,” he said ; a merry 
Christmas to you, though, to tell the truth, you do not look 
particularly merry just now, it seems to me. Is any thing 
wrong ?” he asked, looking curiously into the other’s face. 

“No — no,” replied Maxwell, “nothing exactly wrong; 
but — that is — I’m just a little bothered, you see.” 

“ Bothered ! why, what can be bothering you this fine 
Christmas morning ?” 

“ Well, that’s just what I can’t explain — at least until I 
find out something more myself. But which way are you 
going ? — up to the farm ?” 

“ I was going there,” replied the schoolmaster, “ but as 
it seems I will not find you at home, perhaps I had better 
postpone my visit.” 

“ By no means,” said the farmer. “ Go up, if you have 
nothing better to do, and wait until I return. I shan’t be 
long away, and if I am not very much mistaken, I may need 
to ask your advice. You’ll find some visitors there, at any 
rate. ’ ’ 

“ Visitors ! What visitors have you, Davy ?” 

“ Betsey ’ll tell you all we know about them,” said Max- 
well, “ and we’ll talk about it when I return. In the mean 
time you must excuse me if I seem uncivil. Good-by, 
good-by for the present, and don’t take it amiss that I 
don’t go back with you.” 

The school-master stood looking after the farmer as he 
proceeded on his way to the village, and then turning his 
steps in the opposite direction, walked slowly along, pon- 
dering over the mysterious hints that had fallen from his 
neighbor, who was usually so straightforward and matter-of- 
fact. 

“ Surely,” he said, “ the good dame can’t be going to 
play the part of Sarah and present her lord with an heir at 
this late date. Jupiter Tonans, friend David, it’s not my ad- 
vice you’ll need, if such is the case, but that of a madhouse 
doctor ; for methinks you would be a fit subject for a strait- 
jacket should such a miracle come about. I^o, no,” he 
continued, after a few minutes’ silence, “ it is not that 
which troubles him— and he spoke of visitors. Well, well ! 
I’ll find out all about it in good time.’^ 


12 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


When Maxwell entered the village, he inquired of several 
acquaintances whom he met if they had noticed a stranger, 
a respectable-looking woman dressed in black, that morning. 
Most of those whom he accosted had seen her, and had 
their attention particularly attracted to her owing to the fact 
of her appearing to suffer from some overwhelming grief. 
No one had spoken to her, however, except a woman at the 
farther end of the village, whom she had asked for a glass 
of water, and who inquired the source of her distress, 
but was unable to elicit any definite answer to her ques- 
tion. 

While they were yet talking, a carriage had driven up, 
which the stranger, thanking her for the little she had done 
for her, had hurriedly entered and been driven away. 

The farmer seemed satisfied with the result of his inqui- 
ries, and turning, retraced his steps. 

‘‘ Just as I thought,*' he said, as he walked homeward. 
“It is strange that the idea should have occurred tome 
almost the very minute I lost sight of her. It came to me 
like a flash that I should never see that woman again. 
What can be the meaning of it ? and why should she wish to 
part with them, since it seems to have distressed her so ? 
Perhaps in time the mystery may be explained. In the 
mean time — well, well ! I’ve no objections to keeping them, 
and I know Betsey will be delighted. ’ ’ 

When Maxwell entered his own house again, he found the 
school-master sitting with the little ones, one on each knee, 
listening to their prattle, while a smile of pleasure lit up his 
usually grave face. 

“ Now,” said the boy, ” let me get down and ride your 
horsy. I can ride a kickin’-up horsy, or a gallopin’ horsy, 
or any kind of a horsy — ^just see and jumping down from 
the good man’s knee, he mounted his walking-cane and 
careered wildly around the room, while his sister laughed and 
clapped her hands in ecstasy. 

“ Well, neighbor,” said Mr. Dinning, putting Sylvia 
down to join her brother in his play, “ I was quite sur- 
prised to find what sort of visitors you had. I suppose you 
will enjoy them while they are here, but when they are 
gone, my friend, when they are gone. An unwonted pleas- 
ure is a great delight while it lasts ; but when we are de- 
prived of it, it leaves an unwonted sadness behind. Joys 
untasted trouble us not overmuch, but to be once tasted and 
then to be withdrawn from us, adds one new misery to life ; 
and I suppose, from what your good wife tells me, this is a 
case in ppint.” 


TM^O OLD PEOPLE. 


13 


‘‘ I don’t know about that,” said the host seriously. 
” But where’s Betsey ?” 

” In the kitchen, I presume. She and Elsie Brown left 
me here to entertain your visitors, and I haven’t seen them 
since ; but I have heard a great beating of eggs and mixing 
of other materials going on, and I suppose they are build- 
ing a cake, that style of edifice which pleases the childish eye 
more than the Parthenon or the Coliseum, and which they 
destroy with iconoclastic delight. ‘ ‘ 

Maxwell went to the door and called his wife, and when 
she made her appearance, he sent the children, nothing 
loath, to join Elsie Brown in that mysterious region where 
cakes and tarts and pies are created. 

“Mr. Dinning,” he said, when all three were seated 
near the fire, ” I told you this morning that I was bothered, 
and that I would explain the cause of my botheration when 
I had found out a little more about it myself. I am ready 
to do so now.” 

He then went on to tell how, when he had lost sight of the 
woman, Mistress Margaret, as the children called her, it had 
suddenly occurred to him that he should never lay eyes on 
her again, and how that idea had led him to think how 
strange it was that she should have come there afoot, 
through the cold and snow, with two such tender babes. 
That being explained by the children’s story of themselves, 
had only excited still further his suspicions, and induced 
him to follow her. He then told them what he had learned 
in the village. 

Betsey Maxwell had listened with a growing thrill of 
pleasure while her husband was speaking, and when he con- 
cluded, convinced, like him, that they should never see Mis- 
tress Margaret again, her heart gave a great bound of joy. 
David saw it in the light which beamed from her eyes — a 
light that he remembered to have seen in her younger days 
when certain hopes had been born in her maternal breast — 
hopes which had slowly and with anguish died, never to be 
born again. He did not say any thing to her^ but turning 
to the schoolmaster, asked what he thought about the mat- 
ter. 

” Well,” said Dinning, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, ” I 
don’t precisely know what to think. There is certainly 
something very strange and mysterious in the woman’s be- 
havior, and you may be right in your conjecture. But we 
can’t tell yet, we can’t tell. She may come back to-day, or 
she may come back in a week, a month, or a year. You 
can only wait and see.” 


14 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


“ But supposing 1 am right, what course would you ad“ 
vise me to pursue 

“ There is but one course, that I can see, friend David : 
keep the little ones and raise them as your own. I am sure 
your wife will never object,’' turning to dame Maxwell with 
a smile of sympathy, for he had noted the glow of unspeak- 
able delight in the good woman’s eyes, as well as her hus- 
band. 

“ No, no,” she said, while her voice trembled with emo- 
tion ; ” no, no ; since this thought has been put into my 
head, I feel as though they already belonged to me, and it 
would go nigh to break my heart to part with them. If I 
can but keep them — oh ! if I can — it will be some compensa- 
tion for living so long without a child of my own.” 

A tear or two trickled down her comely face ; but the 
two men did not know whether they were shed for sorrow 
over the desolate days of the past, or joy in the hopes of 
happy days to come. 

” One thing is certain,” said David, after a few moments’ 
reflection, “we can’t pass them off for our own —at least 
here about Atwell, for everybody knows that we have never 
been blessed with children ; and I should not like, if we are 
to keep them, to have it known that they are foundlings — 
waifs that have been left with us under suspicious circum- 
stances. It would be unpleasant to have people talking and 
asking all manner of foolish questions, and then, perhaps, to 
have it thrown up to them by their playmates when they 
grow older. No, that would never do.” 

“You are right,” said the school-master, “that would 
never do. But let us see what we can do. Suppose we in- 
vent some little story about them. I think it will be justifi- 
able unaer the circumstances — what say you ?” 

“ I think so,” responded David. “ What if we say they 
are the children of a nephew whom we have never seen — 
orphans left to our care ?” 

“ That will do very well ; but then there is Elsie Brown, 
who knows all about them, and women — begging your par- 
don, Mrs. Maxwell — are apt to talk, you know.” 

“ Oh !” said Mrs. Maxwell, laughing, “ I think Elsie can 
be trusted. Though she is as fond of using her tongue as 
the most of us, I will answer for her keeping our secret 
when she knows our wishes.” 

So it was arranged, and the school-master took his depar- 
ture. The day glided on to dinner time, and Oliver and 
Sylvia seemed perfectly happy and contented ; but when 
dinner was over, being tired of play, they began anxiously 


THE ARTIST, 


IS 

to look for the return of Mistress Margaret. Towards night 
the snow began to fall thick and fast, and Oliver, going to 
the window and peering out, exclaimed, “ I’m feared she’s 
got lost, and she’ll never find her way back in the snow.” 

As soon as his sister heard that, she began to cry. 
” Oh ! oh ! oh !” she said, ” what s’all we do, Ollie ? what 
s’all we do V and Ollie being unable to answer this ques- 
tion satisfactorily, immediately added a chapter of lamenta- 
tions on his own account. 

Mrs. Maxwell and Elsie did all they could to comfort 
them, and promising to send out in search of Mistress Mar- 
garet in the morning, persuaded them to eat a little bread 
and milk, and allow themselves to be put to bed, where they 
soon sobbed themselves to sleep. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE ARTIST. 

As David Maxwell had anticipated. Mistress Margaret 
never returned. Twelve years passed, and Oliver and Syl- 
via Maxwell, for by those names they were known, seemed 
to have entirely forgotten her, and indeed every thing con- 
nected with the days of their infancy. They no longer re- 
membered the, manner in which they came to ” Uncle 
David’s” house, but evidently believed that they had been 
born there. The resemblance between them was still very 
marked, the principal difference being that Oliver had some- 
what outstripped his sister in growth, while his features had 
become more masculine in their character. With regard to 
their personal appearance, Elsie Brown said, ” They was 
the two most beautifullest humans that the sun and the moon 
and the stars ever shined on ; that there wasn’t a boy nur a 
gal in a hundred mile of Atwell” (Elsie had never been 
more than fifteen miles from the place herself) ” that could 
hold a candle to ’em.” 

They were certainly a lovely pair, refined and elegant in 
both form and feature, with gentle manners and winning 
ways that conciliated even the roughest natures among their 
companions. By common consent among their school-fel- 
lows, they were considered in the light of superiors ; not 
that they endeavored to create that impression, but the ten- 
der consideration which they always manifested for others, 
and the sweet courtesy with which they always treated those 


i6 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


with whom they came in contact, seemed to bespeak a 
higher and a gentler nature. 

Mr. Dinning, who still clung to the idea that they would 
some day be reclaimed, and be called upon to occupy a 
higher position in life than that which they would fill so long 
as they remained with David Maxwell, and were considered 
members of his household, bestowed more care on their edu- 
cation than he might otherwise have done, and seconded by 
their own natural intelligence, he had the satisfaction of 
knowing that his labor was not in vain. They seemed to 
take intuitively to the higher courses of study, and to learn 
readily and with avidity those sciences and languages which 
the rude rustics with whom they were associated plodded 
through heavily and laboriously. In truth, they were quite 
accomplished scholars for their years, and would have done 
credit to an institution of much greater pretensions than 
that presided over by Addison Dinning. 

One day, just as school was dismissed, a stranger, dusty 
and evidently tired, for he seemed to have made a long jour- 
ney on foot, sat down on the stile to rest. 

“ Hallo shouted a great, rough, good-natured-looking 
clodpole, without much thought as to whether the object of 
his remarks heard him or not, ‘‘ here’s a tramp, boys ; let’s 
find out what he’s got in his pack for the traveller had a 
bundle strapped to his back. 

‘‘ Hush, Aleck !” said Oliver Maxwell ; “ that’s no tramp ; 
can’t you see ?” 

“ Well, he’s apedler anyhow,” said Aleck, ” and I mean 
to have a sight of his things.^’ 

Aleck spoke quite boldly while yet at a little distance 
from the supposed pedler, but when he got near enough to 
have an opportunity of carrying out his avowed intention, he 
hung his head rather sheepishly, and, nudging one of the 
smaller boys, told him to ask the man to let them see what 
he had in his pack. 

Oliver and Sylvia were standing a little behind the other 
boys and girls, the latter leaning on her brother’s shoulder, 
and the fine eyes of the stranger were at once attracted to- 
wards them. He was gazing at them intently, with admira- 
tion and pleasure in his looks, when the little boy, prompted 
by his larger companion, piped up, ” If you please, sir, 
Aleck Roundtree wants to see your things.” 

” Aleck Roundtree,” said the young man — for such the 
traveller was — turning reluctantly from the contemplation 
of what he thought the most beautiful picture he had ever 
seen. ” Aleck Roundtree ; and who is Aleck Roundtree ?” 


THE ARTIST, 


17 


“ This is him/’ replied the little chap, pointing to the big 
one alongside of him. 

“Oh! that’s him,, is it?” said the stranger, smiling. 
“ And why couldn’t such a great big fellow as that make 
a request for himself, without putting a little chap like you 
forward to do it for him ?” 

“ I dunno, sir,” said the diminutive envoy, looking up 
into the pleasant face of his questioner and grinning. 

“ And what does he suppose my things consist of ?” 

“ Dunno, sir — less it be rings and things.” 

“ Things and rings, and rings and things,” said the stran- 
ger, with an amused look, while he unstrapped the box from 
his back. ” Well, you shall see. Who knows,” he contin- 
ued musingly to himself, “ perhaps some unconscious 
Giotto or Raphael may be here ?” With that he opened his 
box, and displayed to their wondering gaze a warm, sunny 
picture of the valley in which they lived. 

“ Oh, golly ! ain’t that nice ?” said one. 

“ That’s right where I caught that whalin’ trout, Tom,” 
said another, pointing to the still pool, which, with a few 
trees and rocks, formed the foreground of the sketch. 

” And look at Atwell,” said yet another ; “ ain’t that At- 
well to a notch ? And, by jingoes. Bill, I believe that’s 
your daddy’s house. Ain’t it splendid ?” 

And so they went on, each one finding something in the 
picture that made it peculiarly interesting to himself or one 
of his comrades. The female portion of the spectators were 
mostly silent, a few only speaking in subdued whispers to 
each other. 

The artist looked around for the handsome pair that had 
at first attracted his attention. They were standing close 
behind him in the same attitude that he had seen them in 
before, gazing earnestly at his work, but without uttering a 
word. 

“ You don’t seem to admire my picture,” he said, though 
he knew better, for their rapt silence was far more expres- 
sive of real admiration than all the noisy chatter of their 
school-fellows. They both raised their eyes to his face — 
such eyes, he thought, as he never had seen before — and 
drew a long breath as by one impulse. 

“ Admire.it !” said the youth. “ I cannot tell you how 
much I admire it, and I am sure my sister feels as I do.” 

” O Ollie, ” said Sylvia softly, “ it is so beautiful !” 

“ I am glad you think so,” said the artist, “ for I think it 
the best landscape sketch I have ever made and he stood 
looking at the result of his labor with an expression of 


i8 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


pleased satisfaction. Just then the school-master issued 
forth from the temple of learning, and his pupils began to 
disperse to their several homes — the most of them going to- 
wards the village. Oliver and his sister, however, still re- 
mained absorbed in the contemplation of the picture, and 
did not notice that they were deserted by their companions, 
nor that the master had joined them until they heard the 
painter speak to him. 

“ Good-day, sir,’* he said, “ I hope I have not been 
tempting your pupils to infringe upon any of your rules by 
detaining them here.” 

” By no means,” replied Mr. Dinning. ” When the hour 
of instruction is past, they are no longer under my control ; 
I don’t allow their parents to shift any more responsibility 
upon my shoulders, nor do I assume any more than is abso- 
lutely necessary to the proper government of my school. 
Parents do sometimes try to put the blame of their unruly 
children’s misdeeds upon their teachers, when the blame 
really rests with themselves ; but suum cuique is my motto, 
sir.” 

” And a very good motto it is,” said the painter, ” which 
applies with equal force to all parties — parent, teacher, and 
pupil.” 

” Mr. Dinning,” said Oliver, pointing to the artist’s box, 
in the top of which the sketch was fastened, ” did you ever 
see any thing so lovely as that ?” 

” Ah !” said the old man, adjusting his spectacles on his 
nose, and peering down at the object indicated, ” what have 
we here ? Yes, Oliver, yes, it is lovely — charming, charm- 
ing. So, sir,” he continued, looking up at the stranger, 
” you are a disciple of Zeuxis and Parrhasius, Michel 
Angelo and Raphael ?’ ’ 

” I am but a primer scholar in the profession of which 
they were great shining lights,” replied the young man, 
blushing. 

” Well, well,” said the other, looking at him with con- 
siderable curiosity, ” you are the first artist that I have ever 
seen in my life, old as I am. Strange as it may seem to 
you, sir, no painter has ever found his way to this place be- 
fore.” 

” Strange indeed,” said the artist. ” Had you not told 
me so, I could scarcely believe it possible that so lovely a 
spot could have escaped the eyes of all of our landscape 
painters.” 

” It is so, nevertheless. Not one has ever been here — at 
least within my recollection — and I have lived here forty 


THE ARTIST. 


19 


years. But, sir, if you propose to remain here any time, 
here is a youth whom I can recommend, and who, 1 have 
no doubt, will gladly be your guide for the privilege of see- 
ing you paint. What say you, Oliver 

“ I will gladly assist the gentleman in whatever way I 
can,’' said Oliver. But though his words were few and sim- 
ple, the heightened color in his cheeks and sudden sparkle 
of his eyes told better than words could have done how de- 
lighted he would be to fill the office of cicerone. 

“ I have a week or two to spare,” said the young painter, 
” and I do not think 1 could spend it in a better place than 
this ; so perhaps I will avail myself of your kind offer. Mas- 
ter Oliver.” 

” Of one thing I can assure you,” said the schoolmaster : 
” no one is so well acquainted with all the beauties of our 
valley as Oliver. There is not a nook or corner in it that 
he has not explored.” 

‘‘An invaluable recommendation for a guide,” said the 
artist. ‘‘ But it is getting late, and as I have concluded to 
rest here awhile, 1 must go and see what 1 can do in the 
way of procuring lodgings.” 

All the time he was fastening up his box and strapping it 
on his shoulders, Oliver and Sylvia were whispering 
earnestly together. 

‘‘Yes, Ollie, yes,” said the latter at last, “doit. I’m 
sure Uncle David will not object, and Aunt Betsey always 
does just exactly as we want her to do.” 

Thus urged, Oliver proposed to their new acquaintance to 
accompany them home, saying that he thought his uncle 
could be prevailed upon to accommodate him for a week, or 
as long as he should choose to stay. 

The artist looked at the schoolmaster inquiringly. 

‘‘ Oh ! go with them, go with them, by all means,” said 
the latter, understanding the look. ” I’ve no doubt but 
that you will be well satisfied.” 

” But supposing their uncle and aunt should not be will- 
ing to have me as a lodger ?” 

‘‘ Never fear : if your request is seconded by Oliver and 
Sylvia, old Davy Maxwell and his wife will never say 
nay. ’ ’ 

So saying, he bid the stranger good-day, and left him to 
accompany his two young friends to the farm-house of 
David Maxwell. 

‘‘ And so you are fond of pictures ?” he said to the boy, as 
they walked along. 

” I have never seen any except those in my school-books 


20 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


until you showed us the one in your box to-day ; but I have 
read about pictures and painters.” 

” Ah ! And what can have induced you, who never saw 
a picture in your life, to read about such matters ?’ ’ 

” Mr. Dinning gave me a book on that subject to look 
over, and I became so interested in it that I read it through 
twice.” 

” And you. Miss Sylvia — I think I heard the school-mas- 
ter call you by that name — do you read such books too ?' ’ 

” I always read what Ollie reads,” said the girl, blushing. 

‘ ‘ And what do you think of the painters ?’ ’ 

” Oh ! I can’t exactly tell you. Some of them were very 
poor and unfortunate, like the poets ; but — ” 

” But ? — well, but what ?” 

” I’d like Ollie to be one,” she said, after some little 
hesitation, and looking at her brother with proud affection. 

” But you — wouldn’t you like to be a painter yourself ?” 

” I ! oh no ! I’m a girl, and I don’t think girls can 
learn such things — that is, not well.” 

” And why not ? Don’t you know that one of the great- 
est painters of the day is a woman ? — a woman who was once 
a girl, too, strange to say,” he added, laughing. 

” I didn’t know that ; did you, Ollie ?” 

” No,” replied Oliver, ” I did not ; but the fact is, I know 
nothing about the painters of the present day. The book I 
had only related to what are called the old masters, I be- 
lieve, and among all those great names there are only two 
women mentioned, and I don’t think they could have done 
any thing very great.” 

” Angelica Kaufmann and Elisabetta Serani you allude 
to,” said the artist. “It is quite true that they never did 
any thing very great, but still they must have been excellent 
painters to have been noticed at all amid the brilliant con- 
stellation that surrounded them. But there are few modern 
painters, I assure you, who can rank with the woman to 
whom I alluded just now.” 

‘ ' What is her name, sir ?’ ’ asked Sylvia. 

“ Rosa Bonheur, a French woman. But, by the way, I 
haven’t yet told you my own name, and your uncle will 
want to know that. You may introduce me as Mr. Al- 
ford.” 

They walked along in silence a little while, and then Oli- 
ver said, “ I remarked one thing in reading of those old 
painters, that with few exceptions they always appear to 
have been happy and contented, no matter how poor and 
unfortunate they may have been.” 


THE ARTIST, 


21 


“Yes/’ said Alford, “that is true. It has been truly 
said, ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’ and almost all 
things are beautiful to the soul of the artist. One great 
source of his happiness lies in his work. No matter what 
others may think of it, it is beautiful to him, and so a con- 
tinual joy. There it is before him all the time, and every 
touch he puts on it produces a sensation of delight. When 
he sits in his room, though such scanty furniture as he may 
possess is shabby, his walls are decorated like those of a pal- 
ace, and all by his own handiwork. While he gnaws his 
dry crust, his eyes dwell with ecstasy on some delicate com- 
bination of lines or subtle bit of coloring which came to him 
as by inspiration, and he forgets that he is not eating plum- 
cake and drinking champagne ; that wonderful spiritual joy 
which the poet speaks of, which is born of the thing of 
beauty, is with him forever.” 

They had now arrived at the farm-house, and ushering 
their guest into the front room, Oliver and Sylvia went in 
search of their uncle and aunt. They found the latter in 
the kitchen, and the boy broached the subject of the artist 
and his desires at once. 

‘‘Aunty,’' he said, “there’s a gentleman in the front 
room — a painter — and he wants you to let him stay here a 
week or two — as a boarder, you know.” 

“ Bless the boy !” said the old lady ; “ what’s he talking 
about ? You know, Ollie, we never take boarders. But 
what did you say he was ? — a painter, eh ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, aunty, a painter.” 

“ And oh ! such a nice painter,” put in Sylvia. 

“ Well, if he’s a painter — a real good one — maybe we 
might make out, for the front of the house wants painting 
badly, and he might pay his board that way.” 

Oliver burst out laughing. “ Why, aunty,” he cried, 
“ he’s not a house painter.” 

“Well, if he can’t paint houses, what can he paint?” 
asked Mrs. Maxwell. 

“ Fences, maybe,” suggested Elsie Brown. 

“But we don’t paint our fences, Elsie,” said the old 
lady ; “it would be too expensive ; we whitewash them. 
But perhaps he’d be willing to do that ; it would save the 
money he would otherwise have to pay for his board.” 

“ But he doesn’t paint houses, nor fences, nor stables, 
nor barns, nor chicken-houses,” said Oliver, who, joined in 
his mirth by his sister, had been laughing heartily all the 
time, much to the wonderment of Mrs. Maxwell and Elsie, 


22 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


who couldn't see any thing particularly funny in a man pay- 
ing his board by whitewashing a fence. 

“ What does he paint, then ?” asked the old lady, feeling 
a strong inclination to join in the merriment, though she 
had no idea what it was all about. 

“ O aunty ! don’t you know ?” said Sylvia ; “ he paints 
pictures — such beautiful pictures !” 

“ Pictures exclaimed Mrs. Maxwell. 

“ Picturs !” echoed Elsie Brown. 

“ And what in the world does he do with them ?” asked 
the former. 

“ What do he do wid ’em ?” said the latter. 

“ He sells them, I suppose,” replied the boy. 

” But nobody would buy them here, Ollie,” said his aunt, 
” and how would he pay his board ?” 

” Oh ! I expect he has money enough to do that, whether 
we buy his pictures or not. He’s a gentleman, auntie, and 
sells his pictures in the city to rich people.” 

” Laws a massy !” said Elsie Brown, opening her eyes in 
amazement ; ” they mus’ be rich folks what pays their 
money out for picturs.” 

” Some people pay hundreds of dollars for pictures,” said 
Oliver, ‘ ‘ and there are some pictures in the world that thou- 
sands couldn’t buy.” 

” Good gracious me !” exclaimed Elsie ; ” who could a 
told the boy such a whopper as that ?’ ’ 

“I read it in a book,” said the boy proudly. “But 
come, aunty, say yes, he may stay.’’ 

“ Do, aunty,” said Sylvia, “oh do ; it’ll be so nice !” 

“ Bless the children,” cried the old lady, while they hung 
around her neck, pleading to have their wish gratified, 
“what’s a body to do? Here they bring a man that we 
know nothing in the world about, and want him to stay in 
the house a week, maybe two, and maybe he’d never go 
away, if he found his quarters good ; and then, maybe, if 
he did go, he’d take every thing we’ve got with him.” 

“ No, no, aunty,” cried Oliver. “ I tell you he’s a gen- 
tleman, and only wants to stay a little while so that he can 
paint some of the views about here.” 

“ You ought just to see the picture he has already painted 
of the brook, and the school-house, and Atwell, ’ ’ said Syl- 
via. “ Oh ! it’s so pretty, aunty.” 

“But what will your uncle say about it?” asked Mrs. 
Maxwell. 

“ Oh ! you only say yes, and he’ll say yes, I know,” said 
Oliver ; “ come, come, aunty dear.” 


SOJV/JVG THE SEED, 


23 


Mrs. Maxwell couldn't resist them, and gave her consent 
conditionally — that was, provided their uncle didn’t object ; 
so they ran off in search of him, whom they found in the 
front room talking pleasantly with Mr. Alford, who had 
already explained the object of his presence there, and re- 
ceived a favorable answer. 


CHAPTER III. 

SOWING THE SEED. 

It is needless to say that Oliver and Sylvia were delighted 
when they learned that their uncle had consented to receive 
Mr. Alford as a boarder for as long a time as he chose to 
stay. David Maxwell had manifested no opposition what- 
ever to the arrangement, being, in truth, quite pleased with 
the idea, which promised a change in the dull monotony of 
his life. Mrs. Maxwell, of course, had no objections to 
make, since her husband was satisfied and the children were 
made happy — though she was somewhat disappointed that 
there was no prospect of having the front of the house 
painted. Elsie Brown, having taken a look at the stranger 
around the corner of the doorway, pronounced him a very 
pretty gentleman, and immediately began to build castles in 
Spain, in which Sylvia, who was to her the “ c harming est,, 
beautifullest,, most lovablest ’ ’ creature that moved between 
heaven and earth, acted a most important part. 

‘‘ Ah ! ” she said, when, after her first inspection of the 
boarder, she returned to her labors in the kitchen, “ I allers 
knowed our Sylvia was born to be a lady ; I knowed it from 
the fust.” 

” What do you mean, Brown V" asked Mrs. Max- 
well, to whom the remark was addressed, and who always 
emphasized Miss Brown’s patronymic when she was not par- 
ticularly well pleased. 

“Why, don’t you see. Miss Maxw^//” — Elsie returned 
the compliment paid the name of her ancestors by her mis- 
tress by laying a stress on the last syllable of her name — 
“ don’t you see it’s nuthin* but a ^xoy'xdence as has sent this 
here young man here. Do you s’pose he can live in the 
same house with our Sylvia a day, much less’n a week, 
’thout failin’ head over heels in love with her ; an’ what toi- 
lers failin’ s in love, I’d like for to know ?” 

“ Look here, Elsie Brown^' said Mrs. Maxwell, stopping 


24 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


what she was doing, and looking straight at her servant, “ if 
you care any thing at all for Sylvia, don’t go and put such 
an idea as that in the child’s head, for if you do, I feel cer- 
tain and sure we’d have to part, though you have been with 
me now nearly twenty years.” 

” An’ who said 1 was gwine to put the idee inter her 
head?” said Elsie. ”I was only a talkin’ to you, mam, 
’bout what might happen. No, no, mam. I ain’t got no 
lamin’, an’ I ain’t a Solimun nor a Crusus, but I ain’t a 
fool nuther. ” 

‘‘ Well, well,” replied Mrs. Maxwell, somewhat mollified. 
” I believe you have got more sense than to do that, Elsie ; 
but there are fools enough in this world who fill the minds of 
children with such nonsense as soon as they can talk, and 
then when they go wrong a little later, they never think of 
blaming themselves. Sylvie can’t be far from sixteen years 
old, but she has no more idea of sweethearts and beaux than 
a new-born babe, I do believe, and I wouldn’t have it other- 
wise for the world. ’ ’ 

” Well, you may make your mind easy ’bout me. Miss 
Maxwell ; you has my ’surance,” said Elsie. ” I wouldn’t 
make her wise nor otherwise if she never got marrit. ’ ’ 

‘‘ There is time enough for us to think about that four or 
five years hence,” said the old lady. ” 1 have always 
trusted you, Elsie, and never trusted in vain, and I will 
trust you now : do you understand ?’ ’ 

” Yes, ma’am, I understand,” said Elsie, ” an’ you 
needn’t be ’feered that I’ll sot the chile to thinkin’. You 
knows what I knows ’bout them babes” — Elsie still called 
them babes sometimes — “an’ that I’ve never told a livin’ 
soul, that I ain’t ; though I won’t say as it hasn’t been on 
the tip of my tongue nigh on to a thousan’ times.” 

“ Very well,” said the mistress, “ I know it’s only neces- 
sary to tell you what’s best ; a word to the wise, you know.” 

The old lady was not much given to flattery, but she 
knew that a drop or two of that pleasant condiment went a 
long way with Miss Brown, and when she turned to give a 
few parting words of advice with regard to the supper that 
was being prepared, she saw that that middle-aged maiden 
was smiling complacently to herself. 

Mr. Dinning proffered Oliver a holiday during the artist’s 
stay. He knew the boy, who was remarkably quick and 
full of energy, would soon make up for the lost time at 
school, and he thought that he might learn a great deal from 
the artist which he himself could not teach him. They 
began their rambles without delay, and Alford soon found 


SOWING THE SEED. 


2 $ 


that the school-master had done him a great service in 
recommending his young companion as a guide, for Oliver 
led him to a great many lovely spots that otherwise he 
would never have found — quiet woodland scenes, enlivened 
by little streams of limpid water, in which were reflected 
rocks overgrown with mosses and lichens — scenes which 
only wanted groups of nymphs and satyrs, with Pan at their 
head, to transform them into Arcadian retreats. 

For the first two or three days Oliver was well content to 
sit and watch the progress of the other’s work and listen 
to his pleasant talk, but after the second or third day he be- 
gan to grow fidgety, and showed other signs of mental per- 
turbation which did not escape Alford’s eye. The artist 
understood the signs well enough, but said nothing at the 
time. When they returned home that evening, he opened a 
sort of knapsack which he always carried strapped to his 
sketch-box, and which contained a few articles of clothing 
and some other small matters, and taking thence two or 
three Faber pencils, and a book of drawing paper, such as 
artists use for making pencil drawing — notes of passing ob- 
jects, to be referred to at some future time — presented them 
to his young friend, and told him he would teach him how 
to use them. 

What sensations of delight filled the heart of the boy over 
his first lesson in drawing, and how pleased his sister was as 
she stood looking over his shoulder, watching his progress, 
and listening to the instructions of his teacher with as much 
eagerness as he did himself ! When he had learned to han- 
dle his pencils with tolerable skill, Alford permitted him to 
take his drawing-book with him during their rambles, and 
he soon learned to copy objects from nature, which is really 
the first great step in progress made by the beginner. So 
long as he copies the work of others he is like the babe led 
by the hand, and the first thing he copies from nature is his 
first step alone. 

Sylvia having expressed a wish to be one of the sketching 
party some day, it was arranged that she should accompany 
them on Saturday, and that Mr. Dinning should be invited 
to go, making a sort of picnic of the occasion. The old 
gentleman was much pleased with the idea, and taking a 
couple of fishing-rods and an a.mple supply of provision, 
they started for a little dell as yet unvisited by Alford. 

“ Ah !” said the artist, when they had arrived at their 
destination, and he had looked around him, “ this is one of 
nature’s sweetest haunts. Fairies and elves should inhabit 
this spot.” 


26 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** Isn’t it beautiful !” exclaimed Sylvia. “ OlHe and I 
have often spent whole days here doing nothing at all : it is 
so delightful to do nothing in such a place as this.” 

” And don’t you think it delightful always to do nothing 
— dolce far niente., as the Italians say ? Do you know the 
meaning of that ?” 

” Oh yes !” replied the young girl, blushing, ” sweet to do 
nothing. But I don’t think so at all times. When I am 
where others are working I feel like working too.” 

” I can vouch for that,” said the school-master, who had 
sat down on the moss-covered roots of an old tree to enjoy 
the scene. ” Sylvia is an industrious little body, I can as- 
sure you.” 

” I have found that out for myself,” said Alford, laugh- 
ing ; “she doesn’t know that my lynx eyes have been 
watching her closely for the past two weeks.” 

“ And don’t you believe that Sylvy was idle when she 
was here,” said Oliver ; ” very far from it, I can tell you.” 

“Now, Ollie, ” remonstrated Sylvy, “how can you tell 
such stories ? — what did I ever do ?’ ’ 

“ Do ! — Mr. Alford, you said just now that this is a place 
for fairies and elves to inhabit ; well, I must tell you that 
Sylvy called it Fairy Dell a long time ago, and you should 
hear some of the fairy tales she has made up about it ; all 
‘ out of her own nat’ral head,’ as Elsie Brown would say. 
She used to tell me a new one every time we came here.” 

“ O Ollie !” said his sister, overwhelmed with confusion, 

‘ ‘ how can you betray confidence so ? I never thought you 
would tell about such nonsense — and besides, telling stories 
is not work ; it’s only fun.” 

“ I don’t know about that. Miss Sylvy,” said the artist. 
“ Telling stories that others have invented may not be 
work ; but when you invent the stories yourself, it is labor 
of the highest order — mental labor, which should and does 
rank as far above mere manual labor as mind does above 
muscle. What do you say, Mr. Dinning ? Am I not right ?” 

“ Most assuredly, sir, most assuredly,” was the response. 
“ The people of this world have been working since the fall 
of Adam — most with their hands, a few with their heads — 
and where are the fruits of their labor ? None left except 
those which were the product of intellect. The poets, phi- 
losophers, and historians of past ages are with us to-day ; 
but what is left of man’s manual labor ? The pyramids of 
Egypt and a few heaps of ruins in different parts of the 
world is all ; and even those would long since have disap- 
peared had not the master mind directed the hands that’s 


SOWING THE SEED, 


27 


erected them. It would seem as if all the works of man 
where skill of hand is needful, even when the highest order 
of intellect is employed, are destined to disappear from the 
face of the earth. The works of the ancient artists, for ex- 
ample, have mostly perished already — a few statues alone 
remain to attest their excellence, as the ruined temples to 
attest the superiority of their architects — and those of more 
modern days must also eventually succumb to time, guard 
them as we may ; but the thoughts of man, the wisdom of 
the prophets and the philosophers, the inspiration of the 
poets, seem destined to live forever. They are the essence 
of that soul with which God has endowed man, and, like the 
tree from which the fruit springs, cannot die.'* 

Then you think my labor is in vain ?” said Alford. 

“No, no," replied the school-master ; “ I did not mean 
to convey any such idea. No one who labors earnestly 
labors in vain, be he the least skilful mechanic or the most 
astute philosopher. What I intend to inculcate is that God 
has decreed that the works of man’s hands shall perish." 

“ Well, if the work of my hands must perish, what encour- 
agement is there for me to labor ? My hope is to become 
famous, and to be remembered through my works long after 
I am dead." 

“ Ah, my young friend !" said the old man, with a sigh, 
“ I know what that feeling is. But," he added, with a 
smile, “ I expect the work of your hands will last long 
enough to satisfy you. I doubt if Michel Angelo, Raphael, 
and Titian had any hopes that their paintings would last to 
be admired three centuries after they were dead and gone." 

“ So you rank the artist below the poet?" said Alford, 
who liked to hear the old man talk, though he did not alto- 
gether agree with him in what he said. 

“ Aye, truly, sir ; though the artist is a sort of a poet too. 
I think we may call him a material poet, if such a term may 
be allowed. At any rate we will use it, and you will thus 
understand my meaning — the distinction that I draw is be- 
tween the artist or material poet and the true spiritual poet. 
You comprehend me ?" 

“ Fully," said the young man thoughtfully. “ You could 
not make your meaning plainer, and 1 must confess that you 
have placed the question in an entirely new light to my 
eyes." 

“ Now," continued the school-master, “ I will endeavor 
to give you a good reason why my opinion should be con- 
ceded to be -correct without reference to any partiality on 
my part. The artist’s work appeals to the senses — the 


28 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


higher senses, it is true — through the medium of the eye : as 
long as we look upon it we are filled with pleasure, a sensa- 
tion of delight, but when it has passed from our view our 
joy in it fades ; we cannot recall it to the mind in a suffi- 
ciently tangible shape to take pleasure in it ; we must return 
to it in bodily form : even a copy of it, however clever, 
does not produce the same pleasurable sensations that the 
original did. Am I not right ?’ ' 

“ Yes, you certainly are.*’ 

“ Well, that is the reason that I call the artist a mate- 
rial poet. Now behold the difference ! The thoughts of 
the true poet — the spiritual poet — sink at once into the 
soul of man : it is soul speaking to soul, my friend, and 
there they remain forever, never to be forgotten. We may 
forget the sweet harmonies which the poet has used to con- 
vey his ideas ; those harmonies which are neither music nor 
color, and which are really and truly governed by no arbi- 
trary rules, but which, wedded to the thoughts by a wonderful 
mysterious affinity, move in the most perfect unison with 
them ; those harmonies for which we have found no other 
name than numbers : but, as I was saying, though we may 
forget those harmonies, the divine thoughts, the celestial 
pictures — painted without a brush — on the canvas of the 
soul, will never leave us.” 

Alford looked at the old man, whose intellectual brow 
was crowned with snow-white locks, with respectful sur- 
prise, and wondered if he had not himself been a devotee of 
the muses or if he was one of the ” voiceless” of whom the 
poet Holmes speaks. He said nothing for a few minutes, 
and then he turned to Oliver and Sylvia, who had been lis- 
tening to their dear old master with silent admiration. 

” Come, Oliver,” he said, ” we must get to our work, 
and perhaps your sister will favor us by relating one of her 
fairy tales.” 

He looked inquiringly at the lovely girl, who blushed up 
to the roots of her hair. 

” Oh no, no, no!” she said, full of confusion ; ” indeed I 
cannot. You must excuse me, but I have never done such 
a thing except when Ollie and I have been alone. Be- 
sides,” she added, trying to cover her confusion with a 
laugh, ” I must go a-fishing.” 

” Oh !” said the artist, ” you must go a fishing, eh ? Now 
don’t you think the poor little fish would rather that you sat 
here and told pretty stories instead of tempting them to , 
their death with a baited barb ?” \ 

Oliver laughed, ‘ ‘ Sylvia never fishes with a hook, ’ ’ he said. I 


SOWING THE SEED, 


29 


“ Never fishes with a hook repeated Alford in aston- 
ishment ; ‘ ‘ how does she catch her fish then ? Surely she 
doesn’t charm them ?” 

“No, no,” she said, with a musical little ripple of a 
laugh ; “I don’t catch them at all : I tie my bait to 
the end of the string, and then when they bite I just pull 
them a little way out of the water, where they wriggle a min- 
ute in the sunshine, with their bright scales glistening like 
gold and silver stars, and drop back again. Oh ! it is such 
fun, and I wouldn’t hurt the dear little things for the world. 
Oliver is the cruel one ; he catches long strings of them 
sometimes. ” 

“Yes,” said Oliver, “I’m awfully cruel — at least so 
Sylvy thinks. I don’t dare to take her fishing with me, for 
I know she would take advantage of every opportunity to 
throw my fish back into the water.” 

“Well, Miss Sylvy,” said Alford, “I’ll excuse you for 
the present, and you shall go a-fishing — one could hardly 
deny you such an innocent amusement ; but after we have 
had our dinner, I intend to insist upon the story ; so take 
care and get it all straight in your head while you are play- 
ing with the slimy denizens of the deep.” 

The girl made no reply, except through her little ripple of 
a laugh, and went off, fishing-rod in hand, to join the 
school-master, who had wandered away from the group. 

Fairy Dell was a place such as we often fall in with unex- 
pectedly in journeying among the hills. It was at the foot 
of the northern range of hills which, in conjunction with 
the range that ran parallel with it, formed the valley in 
which Atwell and David Maxwell’s farm was situated. A 
little stream, leaping down a rocky eminence in successive 
cascades, spread itself into a miniature lake in the bosom of 
the dell, and there seemed to rest in placid tranquillity, re- 
flecting the rocks and trees that shut it in, and never ap- 
pearing to move, save when tickled by some passing breeze, 
which made it smile and dimple all over its lovely face, 
though far away through the closely growing woods could be 
seen its outlet — deep umber in the shadows, gleaming gold 
wherever the sunlight kissed it — hurrying away to the 
“ meeting of the waters” in the valley below. 

Around the margin of the lake, over a carpet of grass and 
flowers, the maiden tripped to where the school-master sat, 
with his back propped against an aged tree which grew close 
to the water, reading one of his favorite authors. 

“ Ah, my child !” he said, when she joined him, “ you 
have come to keep me company : that is kind. Solitude is 


30 


AFTEI^ MANY YEARS, 


sweet at times, but the society of the young is always pleas- 
ing to the aged.’' 

She made no reply, but the glow on her cheeks was 
heightened as she dropped on the grass not far from him. 
She was pleased that she had pleased him, and glad that he 
appreciated it.” 

” But what are you going to do to amuse yourself ?” he 
continued. ” Shall I read to you ?” 

‘ ‘ If you please, sir ; but I am going to fish too, ’ ’ she said, 
pointing to her rod, which he had not noticed. 

” Ah ! yes ; an innocent pastime, always loved by reflec- 
tive minds !” 

” / like it,” said Sylvia ; ” at least, my way of fishing.” 

” Your way of fishing, my dear. Isn’t your way like all 
other ways ?” 

” You shall see,” she said, and cast her line into the 
water. 

The old man watched the bob as earnestly as the girl, and 
in a few minutes it began to dip and twirl and dance about 
as if it were alive. 

” Now I have him !” she exclaimed, and gently lifted the 
line out of the water. At the end a little fish wriggled, 
gleaming brightly in the sunshine for a second or two, and 
then dropped back into his native element, scooting away to 
join his fellows, evidently delighted to find he was not 
caught. 

” Oh, isn’t it nice ?” she cried, as she threw her line into 
the water again. 

“But you didn’t catch your fish,” said Mr. Dinning, 
astonished at the evidences of pleasure his companion mani- 
fested. 

“I haven’t any hook,” she replied simply. 

“ Well, why didn’t you bring one, my dear ?” 

“ Because I never fish with a hook ; it is too cruel.” 

“ Oh !” ejaculated Mr. Dinning, with an amused look. 
“ And this, then, is your way of fishing. Well, whatever the 
world might think with regard to what it would call your 
false philanthropy, you certainly are not selfish in your 
amusement ; you do not believe that the fun should all be on 
one side. But come, shall I read to you now while you play 
with the little finny chaps ?” 

“ Yes, sir, if you please,” replied Sylvia, composing her- 
self to listen ; “ but you must not think I am inattentive if 
I interrupt you now and then.” 

” Oh no !” said the school-master. “ We are not in school 
now, and half the pleasure to the reader as well as the lis- 


SOWING THE SEED. 


31 


tener placed in circumstances like ours at present, is, that 
the reading is necessarily desultory, and the attention not 
strained/’ 

The old man was old-fashioned in his tastes, and the book 
he held in his hand was Thomson’s Seasons,” which he 
considered appropriate to the occasion. His voice was 
melodious and sweet, in spite of his age, and the young girl 
listened enraptured while he read from that inimitable 
bucolic descriptions of summer scenes in the country. 

They had been thus engaged for some time ; the school- 
master reading — not regularly, page after page, but skipping 
from one part of the book to another, as his memory served 
to remind him of particular passages that he considered 
remarkably striking ; his companion lifting the little fish out 
of the water one after another — giving them a sight of the 
beautiful world, as she said — when the latter happening to 
look towards the spot where she had left the artist and his 
pupil, saw that they had changed their position ; they had 
walked around the shore of the lake, and stationing them- 
selves at a desirable distance, were evidently sketching the 
very spot where she and Mr. Dinning were seated. 

” Oh look, sir !” she said ; ” they are making pictures of 
this place.” 

” So they are,” said the school-master, looking as she 
directed his attention. 

” Oh ! won’t it be nice if they put us in ?” cried Sylvia. 

” Perhaps they will.” 

” Ah ! I hope they will. But 1 suppose we ought to 
keep very still, or they won’t be able to draw us.” 

” I don’t know that that will be necessary, my dear,” 
said the old man, smiling ; ” artists do not always require 
the objects they depict to be still, I believe ; if they did, 
how could they ever represent the dashing wave, the run- 
ning water, or the trees moved by the wind ? And then, 
even though they should put us in their pictures, I don’t 
suppose they will flatter us by making real likenesses of us ; 
which, indeed, would hardly be possible on so small a scale. 
But we shall see ; in the mean time let us resume our occu- . 
pations, ’ ’ opening his book once more. 

” No — stop a moment, Mr. Dinning,” said the girl, hold- 
ing up her hand, and looking at him earnestly ; ” I wish to 
ask you something. ’ ’ 

” Well, what is it, my child ?” 

” Do you think Ollie will ever make a great artist ?” 

The school-master smiled. ” How am I to tell ?” he said. 
” I don’t even know if he has any ambition that way, 


32 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


though he certainly seems to like his new occupation well, 
and, as in every thing else he undertakes, is very successful 
in his effort.’* 

“ But he has,” said Sylvia. ” I know he has, though he 
has said nothing to any one but me about it. He is per- 
fectly infatuated, I assure you.” 

” Ah !” murmured the old man to himself. ” If that is 
so, perhaps it will be as well to encourage him in it, though 
I don’t know what Davy would say to it : /le has curious 
ideas ; but I don’t know that they can be called curious for 
a man who has been accustomed to a life of toil as he has ; 
and he cannot understand how painting pictures can be an 
occupation at all.” Then he continued aloud : ” It is hard 
to tell, my dear, whether one will be great in whatever pro- 
fession he chooses to follow or not ; there are many things 
to balk us in the path of ambition, unless we are particu- 
larly fortunate, no matter what talent we may have. Diffi- 
culties arise which we never counted on, and which, in spite 
of all we can do, drive us from the track, and we end our 
lives in obscurity. However, Oliver has talent, and energy, 
which is almost as necessary as the talent, and whatever he 
undertakes he will do his best to succeed in.” 

” I am sure he will,” said Sylvia, and resumed her pisca- 
torial amusement while her companion continued his read- 
ing. 

A little after mid-day the whole party returned to the place 
where they had left their baskets, and having selected a 
spot well sheltered from the sun, and close to the water, 
which element formed a necessary portion of the simple 
entertainment, sat down to dine. 

” And now,” said Sylvia, ” before we touch a morsel, 
” let us see what you artists have been doing ; I shall not 
enjoy my dinner unless my curiosity is satisfied.” 

The sketches were produced, examined, and praised, but 
the one that pleased the girl most was the one that Alford 
had made last. The trees, the rocks, the water, and the two 
hills which arose behind, all covered with verdure, save 
where some rift betrayed the solid material that lay under 
the soft epidermis, were rendered with truth and vigor ; but 
what gave an especial charm to the picture was the introduc- 
tion of the white-haired old tutor and his young companion. 
They were not likenesses ; at least not facially so ; but 
Alford, who was really a figure, and not a landscape 
painter, had succeeded in catching certain characteristics 
that belonged to each which would make them easily recog- 
nizable by their friends. 


SOWING THE SEED, 


33 


‘‘ Oh !” said Sylvia, ‘‘ how nice this is. But you said he 
couldn’t make likenesses of us on so small a scale, Mr. Din- 
ning — you see we knew you were painting us, Mr. Alford. ” 

“And do you think they are likenesses?” asked the 
school-master. 

“ Yes, though not the faces, which haven’t a feature in 
them. See, mine is but a little dab of orange-colored 
paint.” 

Alford laughed. ” I could hardly paint your features in 
so small a space,” he said, but there are some general char- 
acteristics about the figures that you recognize, that’s all. 
But do you like the picture ?” 

“ Indeed I do.” 

“ Then you may have it — ” 

‘ ‘ Oh ! may I ? Ah ! how kind you are ! I shall be so glad 
to keep it.” 

“ Stop, stop, not so fast ; let me finish what I was going 
to say. You may have the picture, I promise you that, but 
on one condition.” 

“Oh!” 

“ Accept, Sylvy,’' cried her brother, his eyes brightening 
at the prospect of always having the picture to look at and 
study. 

“ Ah ! but I must know the condition first,” said the girl, 
a little shy of accepting an unknown proviso, as girls usually 
are. 

“ The condition will not be very hard, I’m sure,” said 
Oliver ; “ will it, Mr. Alford ?” 

“ Stop, Oliver my boy,” interrupted the school-master ; 
“ you are giving bad advice to your sister. I have no doubt 
that Mr. Alford’s condition in this case will be very easy to 
comply with, but even though it should prove the most 
trifling and innocent thing in the world, what you wish your 
sister to do would be very unwise. Take the counsel of an 
old man : never promise to perform a task or do a favor for 
anybody in ignorance of the nature of that which is required 
of you.” 

“ I never intended to exact a promise from Miss Sylvia 
without first telling her what I required of her,” said Al- 
ford ; I would not attempt to take an unfair advantage of 
her like that : Oliver was a little hasty. But come, let us 
dine, and after dinner perhaps we can settle this matter sat- 
isfactorily. ” 

The sylvan feast, as Mr. Dinning called it, was enjoyed 
as such always are where a wholesome state of body and 
mind is brought to the entertainment, and that forked bone 


34 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


of the fowl SO much in demand by the younger portion of 
mankind was not the only merry thought present. When 
the meal was over and every thing packed away in the 
baskets, the subject of the picture was again recurred to. 

“ Now, Mr. Alford,'’ said Oliver, “ I know Sylvy is anx- 
iously waiting to hear the condition on which she is to have 
the picture. You needn’t say you are not, Sylvy ; for, quiet 
as you look, I know what’s passing in your mind.” 

” If she is, my son,” said the schoolmaster, ” it is but 
natural ; we all have our fair share of curiosity, especially 
where we ourselves are concerned. ’ ’ 

” I’ll not deny,” said Sylvia, “that I am curious to 
know what Mr. Alford can require of me.” 

” And can’t you guess ?” asked the painter. “ But no, I 
don’t suppose you can ; so I will tell you. All I ask in ex- 
change for this creation of my brush is a creation of your 
fancy.” 

The girl looked at him in a bewildered way, evidently 
failing to comprehend his meaning. 

“You don’t understand?” he said. “Well, I will 
speak more plainly ; you must tell me one of your fairy 
tales.” 

She started, and a rosy flush overspread her face. “ Oh, I 
couldn’t — indeed I couldn’t !” she cried. 

“ And why not ? There is no one present but your 
brother and two friends — one of long standing, and the 
other — well, though he was a stranger but a short time ago, 
I hope he may be considered a friend now.” 

“ Yes, yes,” she replied, “ I know that : it’s all true — for 
even had you not been so kind a friend to my brother, Mr. 
Alford, I think I would like to have you for a friend ; but 
you don’t know what it is you ask of me : it is difficult, im- 
possible I was going to say. * ’ 

“You admit the possibility, then,” said the artist, laugh- 
ing : “ that’s one point gained, at any rate. Now for the 
difficulty. I think you will find that more in the anticipa- 
tion than in the fact. I knowjt will be difficult at the be- 
ginning, but once get started, and when your mind becomes 
absorbed in your subject, you will forget that you have an 
audience, at least I have been told that that is the way it 
always is with actors and public speakers.” 

Sylvia sat playing nervously with a wild flower that she 
had plucked from a little shrub which grew in the cleft of 
the rock on which she sat, while the rosy color came and 
went on her face like the cloud shadows on a lovely land- 
scape. She was evidently desirous of pleasing, but at a loss 


SOWING THE SEED, 


35 


how to conquer her girlish timidity. Alford sat looking at 
her, apparently enjoying her embarrassment, though the fact 
was he was not thinking of that at all : it was a pretty pic- 
ture — the prettiest he had ever seen. The school-master 
came to the rescue. 

“ I see, my dear child,” he said, ” that you have the de- 
sire to entertain us, but a very laudable feeling of modesty 
stands in the way. Take courage, and remember that there 
is but one present to whom your talents in that way are as 
yet unknown, for you know that I have often had occasion 
to bestow praise on your compositions at school, and I am 
well aware that you have a sweet fancy and a pleasant way 
of exercising it.” 

Sylvia, with her eyes cast on the ground, still sat twitch- 
ing the flower with her nervous fingers, while the glow on 
her cheeks deepened to a rich crimson. She remained 
silent for a few minutes, and then with a voice trembling 
and faltering at first, but gaining steadiness as she pro- 
ceeded, related the story of 

THE THREE SISTERS OF FAIRY DELL. 

Many years ago there lived three sisters near a place 
called Fairy Dell. It was called Fairy Dell, because there the 
fairies were said to meet on moonlight nights to dance and 
frolic, and plan mischievous pranks to frighten or annoy the 
simple rustics who lived in the surrounding country. And 
well might it be the favorite haunt of fairies and elves, for a 
sweeter spot it would be hard to find, and the country folk 
never disturbed the dreamy tranquillity that reigned there, 
believing the place to be sacred to those little creatures of 
whom they stood in such great awe. 

The only persons who ever had the hardihood or thought- 
lessness to intrude within the boundaries of those mysterious 
precincts were the three sisters. Coral, Azure, and Snow- 
flake. They lived in a cottage near by, and were accus- 
tomed to visit the little lake which lay as if asleep in the 
bosom of the dell, never stirring, save to smile sometimes, as 
if in a dream, when Zephyr, stooping from the hills above, 
kissed its lovely, peaceful face. 

There was one particular spot where they loved to sit and 
feed the dear little fish, watching them dart about and play 
in the clear, cool water, while Coral and Azure chattered 
and laughed, and Snowflake worked ; for she, though the 
youngest, was the industrious member of the family. 

At this particular spot an old oak grew close to the mari 


3 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


gin of the lake, sending some of his crooked roots down 
among the soft green mosses that were so luxuriant at its 
bottom. Here a few rocks jutted out into the water, form- 
ing a little cove which was a favorite resort for the pretty 
fish that seemed to like the shade made by the great arms of 
the old tree, which spreading far around, hung over and 
almost touched the shimmering surface of their liquid home. 
Seated here one day they talked about the fairies in a 
hushed, murmuring tone, as if they too were afraid of 
offending them. 

Tell me. Coral,” said Azure, ” if the fairy queen 
should appear to us and grant each the fulfilment of a wish, 
what would be your wish ?’ * 

” My wish ?” said Coral : ” oh ! I would wish to be very 
rich, to live in a castle, and have plenty of servants, and car- 
riages and horses, and every thing grand and handsome 
about me. But what would you wish. Azure 

” I ?” replied Azure ; ” well, I would be satisfied to have 
moderate wealth, with a nice house and nice things, if I 
could only be the most beautiful woman in the world.” 

' * And you, dear Snowflake, ’ ’ said Coral — they always 
called her ” dear Snowflake,” because she was so good and 
so lovable, and more, perhaps, because she did all the work 
without murmuring — ” what would you wish ?” 

” I would wish to be good and have plenty to do,” re- 
plied Snowflake without raising her eyes from the work she 
had in her hands. 

” Oh, you silly child !” cried Coral ; ” are you not good 
enough already ? I’m sure if you were any better Azure 
and I would never be able to live with you — we should feel 
so very wicked. ’ ’ 

” And don’t you have enough to do, you foolish thing ?” 
said Azure. •” It seems to me that you are never idle, 
while we are always playing and doing every thing but work- 
ing. I declare, I should really be ashamed of myself if you 
were not so good, making me feel as though I were doing a 
great favor in allowing things to be done for me.” 

” Indeed though, I am not good,” said Snowflake 
quietly, ” for try as I will to prevent it, I often have very 
wicked thoughts ; and I have many idle moments which 
hang heavy on my hands.” 

” Ha, ha, ha !” laughed the two elder sisters, ” how ridic- 
ulously this dear little Snowflake talks — she who is goodness 
and industry personified, as everybody knows !” 

” Ah ! that’s what you say,” said Snowflake, sighing ; 
” but you don’t know every thing ; and besides, you love me 


SOWING THE SEED, 


37 


so much that you think I am better and smarter than I 
really am.’’ 

“ Indeed we do love you, darling little Snowflake,” said 
the other two, caressing and kissing her, ” and nobody 
shall ever persuade us that it is not good and right — not even 
yourself. ’ ’ 

While they were thus engaged, they had not noticed a 
graceful little creature who had quietly taken her seat among 
them. She was so small, indeed, that they might have mis- 
taken her for a very beautiful flower at the first glance. 
Her face was so diminutive, that it had to be examined very 
closely to find out how lovely it was, and her tiny hands 
and teet were like little points of light. Her skirt, which 
reached just below her knees, was a snow-white lily, her 
bodice a crimson convolvulus, split open in front and 
fastened together below the bosom with a brooch made of a 
golden lady-bird, and the waist underneath was composed 
of some soft zephyry stuff woven from the fur of a white 
caterpillar, while over all her hair fell like rippling rays of 
sunlight. 

Snowflake was the first to notice her. Having finished 
the seam she was sewing, she looked up, and her glance im- 
mediately fell on the fairy. 

” Oh !” she exclaimed, with a start and a sudden flush of 
color to her face, and her eyes remained fastened on the 
spot where the little being sat. 

Coral and Azure looked to see what it was that had 
startled their sister. 

” Oh, mercy on us !” cried Coral. 

” Oh, goodness gracious me !” said Azure. 

“Well, fair young ladies,” said the fairy, “you were 
talking about me a minute ago, and yet you seem afraid, 
now that I am here.” 

“ We are not afraid,” said Snowflake, who was the only 
one of the three that could find voice to speak, “ but we are 
startled.” 

“ And why should you be startled ? Didn’t you believe in 
me while you were talking about me, after all I and were 
you only jesting ?” 

“ Oh no !” replied Snowflake, “ we were not jesting at all : 
we believed in you, but we never imagined that we should 
ever be so favored as to get a sight of you, much less that 
you would condescend to speak to us.” 

“You think, then, that it is a very great favor for me to 
show myself, and a wonderful condescension for me to 
speak to you. Well, perhaps it is ; but I have come for a 


38 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


purpose, and when it suits my whim I can favor the meanest 
mortals with a sight of myself, and even condescend to talk 
with them. I heard all you said just now, though you 
didn’t suppose that I was anywhere near, and as I am some- 
what capricious, I took it into this little head of mine to 
grant you the fulfilment of the wishes you expressed. It 
shall be so — that is all I have to say — good-by and with 
that she mounted on a passing breeze, and floated away like 
a gorgeous butterfly, kissing her little hand to each of the 
three before she disappeared. 

“ A — h,” said Coral, drawing a long breath, “ who would 
have thought it ! What do you think about it, Azure ? Do 
you think she was in earnest, and that we shall really have 
what we wished for ?’* 

“ I don’t know what to think,*' replied Azure : “ what 
do you think. Snowflake ?** 

“ I have not a doubt of it,” said Snowflake decisively. 

” Well, I don’t see any signs of it,” said Coral, holding 
up the skirt of her dress, and examining it as if she ex- 
pected to find her plain print frock changed into a gold- 
tissue or silk-velvet gown. 

” You are too impatient,” said Snowflake ; ” it is not to 
be supposed that so important a change will take place in 
an instant. What are you doing. Azure ?’ ’ 

” Oh ! nothing,” said Azure, with assumed carelessness ; 
” I was just thinking.” 

This was not exactly the truth, for Azure had been care- 
fully running her fingers over each feature of her face, try- 
ing to find out in that way if any alteration had taken place 
in them. 

Coral laughed, for she too had observed her younger sis- 
ter’s actions. ” Don’t worry yourself unnecessarily, sis- 
ter,” she said : ” you are just like the Azure that you have 
always been. But come, let us go home ; perhaps we may 
find things different there. Wouldn’t it be nice if we 
should find our cottage grown into a grand castle ?” 

But when they arrived at the cottage they found it the 
same as when they left it. Coral looked disappointed, for 
as they walked homeward she had persuaded herself into 
the belief that she should really find the change for which 
she hoped. 

Snowflake went about her household duties the same as 
ever, singing merrily to herself all the time ; but her two 
sisters lounged around, first in the house and then in the 
garden, idly ftioping — Azure every once in a while consult- 
ing the looking-glass — till at last they became very cross and 


SOWING THE SEED. 39 

fretful, and expressed the belief that the fairy had only been 
making sport of them. 

At the usual hour they retired to rest, and Snowflake fell 
asleep almost immediately ; but Coral and Azure lay awake 
the greater part of the night tossing about and complaining. 
At last, however, they fell into a deep sleep. 

In the morning Snowflake was up betimes working and 
singing softly to herself, as was her usual habit. She did 
not go to her sisters’ rooms, as she never called them until 
she had breakfast ready to put upon the table ; and she 
always sang her sweet songs very softly in the morning, for 
fear of disturbing them. When every thing was ready — and 
she had lingered as long as possible over her preparations — 
she knocked on Coral’s room door. She heard no sound 
within, so she waited a few minutes and knocked again ; 
but still receiving no answer to her summons, opened the 
door and looked in. There was no one there. 

“ Ah !” she murmured to herself, “ the fairy’s promise 
has probably excited her so that she could not sleep as long 
as usual ; she must have gone into the garden. Poor 
Coral ! I fear her patience will be sadly tried before her 
hopes are realized. ” 

So saying, she went to awaken Azure, but she found her 
chamber also deserted. Thence Snowflake proceeded to 
the garden, but nowhere could she find the objects of her 
search. 

” Oh !” she said, after seeking for them in every nook 
and corner among the shrubbery, ” in their impatience they 
have probably gone to Fairy Dell in the hope of seeing the 
fairy queen again.” 

Forgetting the breakfast and every thing else in her anxi- 
ety to find them, she set off at once for Fairy Dell, where 
having arrived, she called and called, and searched and 
searched, but all in vain. At last, wearied with her exer- 
tions, and with a sad foreboding of evil at her heart, she sat 
down and began to cry. She did not know how long she 
had sat thus, when she was aroused by what she thought was 
the hum of a bee close to her ear. She paid no attention to 
it at first, but still she heard it, and then it seemed to her 
that the bee was talking to her, and looking up, she saw the 
fairy queen sitting quite near to her on a litde swaying twig. 

” Why are you crying. Snowflake ?” she asked. 

” Because I cannot find my sisters,” was the reply. 

” Is that all } Ah ! well, you need not waste any more 
tears, for they are in good health and perfectly happy, ac- 
cording to their ideas of what constitutes happiness. ” 


40 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


** But where are they ?” asked the girl. 

“ Coral is the mistress of a fine castle a few miles from 
here over the eastern hills, and possesses all that she de- 
sires ; and Azure lives in a nice house, no farther away, 
over the western hills, and she is so lovely to look upon that 
soon the whole country will resound with the fame of her 
beauty, and everybody will be hastening thither to get a 
sight of her. Are you not sorry that you did not choose like 
them 

“ No,” replied Snowflake, ” I am contented to remain 
where I am, provided I can be of some use in the world.” 

‘ ‘ But you would be able to do more good if you were rich 
and beautiful.” 

” That is true,” said Snowflake musingly, ” if such a 
change in my fortunes did not make a change in me. I 
have noticed that people who are so rich and so beautiful 
are generally too intent upon themselves and their pleasures 
to bestow a thought upon others, and I don’t suppose that I 
am any better than others. No, no ; I should fear to be put 
to such a trial. I might become proud and vain. But shall 
I never see my sisters again ?’ ’ 

“ Oh yes,” said fairy, smiling, and wondering if it 
would be possible to spoil such a nature, ” they will come 
your way before long : only have patience. But now I 
must bid you good-by. Don’t grieve for your ambitious 
sisters, who are not thinking about you.” 

Having done what she could to comfort the sorrowing 
maiden, she arose in the air and was in a few minutes wafted 
out of sight. 

Snowflake shortly after returned to her home, relieved in 
her mind concerning the fate of her sisters, but grieved that 
she should be deprived of their companionship. She found 
sufficient employment, however, to keep her busy, and had 
no time to mope, and she was glad to find that none of 
those thoughts which she considered evil ever intruded 
themselves upon her, so that she was happy and contented 
even though she was alone. 

But let us see how the other sisters were faring. 

Coral had gone to sleep in her humble bed, discontented 
and angry because she thought the fairy had deceived her ; 
but lo ! when she awoke in the morning, what a surprise 
was in store for her, and it was some time before she could 
persuade herself that she was not dreaming ! She found her- 
self in a magnificent chamber, lying on an elegant bed. The 
sheets and pillow-cases on which she reposed were of the 
finest and whitest linen, trimmed with the most exquisite 


SOWING THE SEED, 


41 


and delicate lace, and the coverlet was a large square of silk 
of the most brilliant hues, which ran into and harmonized 
with each other like the colors of the rainbow, while the 
curtains of the bed, as well as those of the windows, were of 
rich damask covered with wreaths and scattered flowers in 
every conceivable tint. The walls were covered with beau- 
tiful pictures, and in the corners of the room stood pedes- 
tals, each of a different kind of marble, white, yellow, green, 
and red, supporting statues representing the power of love, 
of beauty, of virtue, and of wealth, while articles of furni- 
ture of every variety suited to a sleeping apartment, of the 
most expensive material and the finest workmanship, were 
arranged with a consideration both for taste and conve- 
nience. But what attracted her attention most particularly, 
and pleased her above all other things that she saw, was a 
small clock that stood upon the marble mantelpiece. The 
works, which were made entirely of gold and silver and 
precious stones, were inclosed in a crystal case, so that all 
their movements were perceptible to the eye. Stationed in 
different parts of the interior were little ebony figures of 
men turning the wheels, and assisting each part to perform 
an allotted task, so that the whole affair looked more like a 
little machine shop than any thing else. Rising above this 
crystal case, supported by ivory columns, entwined with 
green ivy in enamel intermingled with roses in rose-coral, up 
which little silver cupids were climbing, was an amber tower 
of elegant proportions. Around the foot of the tower was a 
platform protected by a balustrade, and on the top a little 
belfry. 

While Coral lay looking at this beautiful ornament she 
saw a little imp of strange and uncouth form leap up into 
the belfry and seize a sledge-hammer, with which he struck 
ten strokes on the bells, performing a melodious chime, 
when immediately from the doors of the tower onto the plat- 
form issued ten little maidens, who sang a merry song, to 
which the men in the case below, ceasing their labors, 
seemed to listen enraptured. As soon as the maidens had 
finished their song, they disappeared within the tower, when 
immediately she heard the tinkle of bells, above, below, and 
on all sides of her ; and as soon as those sounds ceased, 
there was a great commotion — the stirring about of feet, 
and the sound of many voices. She lay still, wondering 
what would happen next, when presently there came a gen- 
tle tap on the door of the room, and she heard several voices 
whispering without. 

She did not know exactly what to do, for she was yet un- 


42 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


certain as to the position that she occupied in this house, of 
which she knew nothing beyond the walls of the chamber in 
which she had slept ; so she still remained quiet, and in a few 
minutes the door opened and three beautiful girls entered. 
“Will madame be pleased to rise now ?“ said one of the 
three ; “ it is time to dress for breakfast. “ 

** Where am I ?“ asked Coral, sitting up in bed, and 
looking curiously at the damsels, each one of whom was 
much prettier than herself, she well knew — unless she had 
changed as well as her circumstances — and envy immedi- 
ately filled her heart, notwithstanding they treated her as 
their mistress and superior. 

“ Madame is in her castle in Spain. “ 

“ Am 1 in Spain, then ?“ 

“ No, madame, but that is the name of this castle which 
belongs to you, and we are your maids of honor. My 
name is Dream, and these are my sisters. Phantasm and 
Hallucination. ’ ’ 

When Coral heard this, her manner changed immediately. 
“I am a queen, then,“ she thought, “ or something very 
like one. Here, girl, “ she said to Phantasm, with an im- 
perious toss of her head — for she imagined that it was neces- 
sary in order to show her superiority, to put on airs — 
“ here, girl, hand me the mirror. “ 

Phantasm complied without seeming to notice the sudden 
assumption of regal manners, dropping a courtesy respect- 
fully as she did so. 

Coral examined her face eagerly in the glass, but could 
perceive no alteration in a single feature, and casting a 
glance at her attendants, she saw that she, who had always 
been considered quite pretty, was really ugly compared with 
them. She hated them from that moment, and treated 
them accordingly. But they did not seem to think there 
was any thing strange in her conduct, submitting to all her 
caprices and ill-tempers without a sign of having noticed 
them, taking them, indeed, quite as a matter of course, 
which only made her the more angry and exacting. 

After much trouble and many angry words, and, if the 
truth must be told, a few hearty boxes on the maidens’ ears 
— which were received without a murmur of complaint — she 
was at last arrayed in the most magnificent dress that her 
wardrobe contained, and a rare and priceless set of jewels, 
which she selected from a great number displayed to her 
by her chief tire-woman ; and then, viewing herself in the 
mirror, she felt somewhat compensated for her want of good 
looks in the beauty of her apparel. 


SOWING THE SEED, 


43 


The last touches to her toilet were just completed when 
the boom of a big bell resounded through the castle, and 
soon after a great stamping was heard, as of many persons 
coming up a staircase. Coral turned to her attendants with 
a look of inquiry. 

“ It is the major-domo and his assistants coming to escort 
madame to breakfast,*' said Dream. 

Madame drew herself up haughtily and waited, and in a 
few minutes there was a rap on the door, which one of the 
girls opened. The major-domo stood without. He was a 
splendid-looking man, and it was a grand sight to see him 
with his staff of office marshalling his company of assistants 
on either side of the great hall. 

It is astonishing how quickly one who has been accus- 
tomed even to very humble surroundings can assume airs of 
grandeur when unexpected prosperity falls to their lot. 
Coral threw back her head with a disdainful air, and a smile 
of supreme contempt wreathed her lips as she motioned her 
maids to follow in her footsteps. As she did so, a little 
page, dressed in canary-colored silk, stepped forward and 
lifted her train, which he carried gracefully on his arm as 
she proceeded majestically to the banqueting-hall, followed 
by her maidens and the rest of the company. 

She found a large number of persons assembled, awaiting 
her appearance, all of whom treated her with the most 
marked display of deference, which she acknowledged by 
stately bows as she passed up to the head of the hall, where 
she took her seat at the table, her three maids of honor 
standing behind her chair to be ready to obey such com- 
mands as she might desire to give. As soon as she had as- 
sumed her place, the guests sat down, and a scene of feast- 
ing and revelry followed. The queen — as she seemed to con- 
sider herself — never condescended to notice the great major- 
ity of those present, only addressing a few curt remarks, in a 
haughty and supercilious manner, to two or three of the 
most distinguished-looking individuals ; so that the meal, 
which to the others was an occasion full of enjoyment, was 
to her dull and unentertaining ; the artificial dignity and 
stately reserve in which she had chosen to withdraw herself 
preventing her from joining in the general mirth, and it was 
really a great relief to her when it was over and she retired 
from the hall in the same manner that she had entered it. 

During the day one who was announced as the steward 
made his appearance in her private sitting-room — which was 
fitted up in the most sumptuous style, as indeed was every 
room in the castle. He was a gray-headed little man, who 


44 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


came in bowing, and almost crawling on the floor. He was 
told, in what his mistress intended to be a very condescend- 
ing tone, to be seated, when he proceeded to go over his ac- 
counts, while she listened with the air of one who had been 
accustomed to hear of millions received and thousands ex- 
pended every day of her life. 

She learned from the steward that she was possessed of 
vast estates, carriages, horses, cattle, and servants innumer- 
able, and her heart swelled with pride within her. Her ap- 
parel and jewels were of the most costly description, and the 
greatest misery of her life she experienced when she had to 
select what she should wear ; and as she was constrained, or 
at least felt herself so, to change her dress six times a day, 
her misery was never-ending. Often after she was fully 
dressed she would examine herself in the mirror, and com- 
paring her face — which she now in her secret heart thought 
hideously ugly — with those of her pretty maids, she would 
become dissatisfied, and fancy that she would look better in 
something else, so that the whole process of the toilet had to 
be gone over again, to please her still less, perhaps, in its 
results. 

The only occasions in which she experienced any thing like 
pleasure — if it could be called pleasure — were at her daily 
receptions, when for an hour she gave audience to the mos.t 
distinguished of her guests in the grand saloon of the cas- 
tle. There, seated on a sort of throne, surrounded by 
almost imperial state, she would condescendingly bend her 
head to those presented, exulting in the pride that filled her 
soul. 

She never appeared in public except in great state, occu- 
pying a large gilded coach, in which she sat all alone, fol- 
lowed by other coaches containing her attendants, and sur- 
rounded by guards and outriders in brilliant costumes. 
The people, on these occasions, received her with acclama- 
tions, and bowed down to the ground as she passed, though 
she heeded them no more than if they had been so many dogs. 

Every description of entertainment was gotten up for her 
amusement, but she took no pleasure in it all ; for her mind 
was so taken up with sustaining the dignity of her position, 
that she had no thoughts to bestow on any thing else. And 
thus she lived. She was too rich to enjoy her riches, and 
envious of any one who possessed any thing that her wealth 
could not purchase. Yet, though she never had enjoyed so 
little happiness in all her life, she would rather have died 
than have resigned the empty grandeur of her station to ac- 
cept humble and blissful contentment in its stead. 


so IV IN G THE SEED, 


4S 


Azure, like her sister, had been transported in her sleep 
from the cottage in which she had passed so many happy 
days, and when she awoke in the morning she was surprised 
to find herself in a chamber much larger than that to which 
she had always been accustomed. The furniture and 
adornments of the room were handsome and costly, though 
nothing to compare with the articles of the same description 
to be found in every apartment of Coral’s castle. The cur- 
tains of the bed and windows were of pink silk and white 
lace, and the clock on the mantelpiece was a very pretty, 
simple affair, that ticked busily and told the time correctly, 
and that was all. Every thing, however, was much finer 
than she had ever been accustomed to, and her heart palpi- 
tated with delight as she sprang out of bed to look at herself 
in the looking-glass to see if all the conditions of her wish 
had been fulfilled. When she caught sight of herself she 
started back in amazement : such wonderful, such transcen- 
dent beauty as that which she beheld she had never dreamed 
of nor imagined. Blushing rosy with delight, her heart 
fairly thrilling with happiness, she ran back to the bed and 
buried her face in the pillows, where she remained, every 
nerve trembling with joy, until aroused by a gentle tap on 
her chamber door. She raised herself up and sat still on 
the edge of the bed, and in a few minutes the tap was re- 
peated, and the door opening, a pleasantTaced maiden, 
neatly dressed, stepped inside. 

“ Are you ready to get up, miss ?’' asked the maid, look- 
ing at her with undisguised admiration. 

“Yes — ah — ah — presently,” was the reply. “But — ah 
— what is your name ?” 

“ Illusion, miss,” said the maid, with a curtesy. 

“ Illusion ! why, that’s a curious name, isn’t it ?” 

“ It’s the name that was given me,” said Illusion, smil- 
ing. 

“Oh yes! to be sure,” said Azure musingly, “you 
couldn’t help that ; and, after all, I believe I like the name 
well enough. But tell me. Illusion, whose house is this ?” 

“ This is Fantasie Hall, miss ; and it is your own house,” 
said Illusion, opening her eyes in amazement at the ques- 
tion. 

“ And is it a very pretty house ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, indeed it is, and the gardens are delight- 
ful. But who ought to know that better than yourself ?” 

“But I don't,” said Azure, “for I have never seen 
either.” 

Illusion looked at her mistress with wondering eyes, and 


46 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


did not seem to know what to make of her, and then she 
ventured to suggest that she should permit herself to be 
dressed, as it was almost breakfast time. 

Seated in front of the mirror. Azure gazed and gazed at 
herself with ever-increasing rapture. At last she said, 
“ Illusion, do you think I am beautiful 

“O miss!” said the girl, dropping the heavy mass of 
raven hair that she was braiding, ” you are as beautiful as 
an angel.” 

” But don’t you think,” said Azure, and a feeling of dis- 
content crept into her heart as she said it, ” don’t you think 
I would be much more beautiful if I was fair and had blue 
eyes and golden hair ?” 

” Oh no, indeed, miss !” said Illusion ; ” beauty of that 
style would be tame beside yours. You are just perfect.” 

This flattering speech somewhat mollified the mistress, but 
still the thought remained to disturb and make her dissatis- 
fied. However, she said nothing, and her little maid — who 
had a great deal of taste in that way — dressed her so becom- 
ingly, that the feeling was for a time superseded by admira- 
tion of her truly surpassing loveliness. 

Azure, under the guidance of Illusion, descended to the 
breakfast room, where she found a very pleasant company 
assembled, who broke into raptures over her as soon as she 
joined them. There was one among her guests who pos- 
sessed the style of beauty she coveted, and though she could 
not be compared with the mistress of the mansion, the latter’s 
heart was filled with envy, which soon developed into ill-will 
towards her whom she considered her rival. No one noticed 
the whims and caprices through which she gave vent to her 
bad temper, seeming to take them as a matter of course — 
things that she was entitled, by virtue of her great beauty, 
to display whenever she felt so inclined ; and the meal passed 
off pleasantly enough to the most of those present. 

Azure was delighted with her mansion, with the gardens, 
the horses, the carriages, and every thing, and nothing 
troubled her except that one idea which had taken complete 
possession of her mind — that she would be so much more 
beautiful if she were only fair, with blue eyes and golden 
hair. Do what she would, look at and admire her own 
transcendent beauty as she would — and she did so some- 
times by the hour — she could never feel satisfied. All the 
incense of flattery offered up at her shrine was of no avail. 
She would look at the happy little blonde, who was one of 
her merriest guests, and wonder why that ” insignificant lit- 
tle thing’ ’ should be endowed with the only things that she 


SOWING THE SEED. 


47 


coveted. Her evil tempers were often displayed without re- 
serve, but her guests either overlooked her faults or made 
excuses for them, placing her on the same footing with the 
king, who it is supposed can do no wrong. No one imag- 
ined that she was suffering acute misery all the time, that 
the little thought which had entered her mind — like the 
little cloud no bigger than a man’s hand ” — had grown and 
grown until it pervaded and darkened her whole existence. 

The time seemed to be agreeably spent by the company, 
and even Azure, whenever she could forget herself and her 
grievance, appeared to enjoy the various amusements inau- 
gurated for her pleasure. She had selected for her own use 
a most beautiful and spirited black horse, and when she was 
mounted on his back it was a sight worth going miles to 
see. Wherever she rode, surrounded by her gay cavalcade, 
she created a great sensation. The people would drop their 
work, no matter what they were doing, and run out to look 
at her ; while those who encountered her on the road would 
stop, and turning, gaze after her as long as she was in sight. 

This was all very delightful for a time ; but one gets tired 
of flattery, as of every thing else — only not quite so soon — if 
surfeited with it, and in a little while Azure got so that as 
soon as she saw people hastening to the roadside to get a 
sight of her, she would whip her horse up and ride as fast as 
she could in order to disappoint them, enjoying their dis- 
comfiture more than she would have done any pleasure that 
she might have given them. 

All this time neither Coral nor Azure had a thought to 
bestow upon their little sister, whom they had always pro- 
fessed to love so much ; and she, though she thought of 
them much, and heard of them often from people who did 
not know they were her sisters, had never seen them. She 
had once or twice thought of going to see them, but when 
she heard of their pride and arrogance she feared they 
would not be glad to see her ; so she stayed at home, and 
what between her own household duties and the assistance 
which she kindly bestowed upon her neighbors, some of 
whom had large families of children requiring to be clothed 
and taught, with little money to spare, she had no time to 
grieve. But a meeting came about between the three at 
last, and then she rejoiced that she had not intruded herself 
among them and their grand friends. 

One day she was teaching a class of her neighbors’ chil- 
dren, when her labors were interrupted by a great noise out- 
side. Going to the door to see what was the cause of so 
unusual a commotion, she saw the laborers in the field leav- 


48 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


ing their work and hurrying to the roadside, while women 
and children were running out of the cottages clapping their 
hands and shouting. 

Looking down the road in the direction whither every- 
body’s attention seemed to be attracted, she beheld a sight 
such as had never before been seen in that quiet and se- 
cluded valley. It was a scene such as she had read of in 
books. A gay and brilliant cortege of coaches, surrounded 
by horsemen dressed in the most gorgeous costumes, was 
moving rapidly towards her. The leading coach was scar- 
let, ornamented with gildings of scrolls and wreaths of flow- 
ers, and drawn by cream-colored horses with white manes 
and tails. The coachman and footmen were dressed in a 
livery of green velvet trimmed with silver lace, as were the 
outriders ; while a military guard, clothed in scarlet and gold, 
rode in front and on each side with drawn swords. The 
coaches which followed Avere of many different colors, but 
none so handsome in their fittings as the first ; and 
were surrounded by a crowd of men and boys, arrayed in 
gay trappings, and carrying brilliant banners, who pranced 
and galloped along on fine steeds, while noble-looking dogs, 
with gold and silver collars on their necks, leaped and 
barked among them. 

Snowflake had heard of the regal state in which her eldest 
sister always appeared, and knew that the occupant of the 
foremost coach could be no other than she. “ Dear Coral,’* 
she said to herself, she has not forgotten me, and now she 
has come in all her grandeur to see me : how happy I shall 
be to embrace and kiss her once more, and hear all about 
the delights of her present life.” 

While she awaited the arrival of the cortege in front of 
her cottage, no envious thought interfered with the joy she 
felt in anticipation of the approaching meeting ; and when 
the scarlet coach stopped at her door, without heeding the 
guards, who attempted to intercept her, she rushed to the 
side of the vehicle holding out her arms to her sister, whom 
she expected to fall into them and receive her loving kisses 
of welcome. Alas ! what a disappointment awaited her ! 
A lady, magnificently attired, but whom she recognized as 
Coral, and who scarcely seemed able to bend her neck for 
pride, put her head out of the window, and addressing one 
of the outriders, asked what that woman wanted. 

” I don’t know, my lady,” said the lackey, ” unless she 
is a beggar. ’ * 

“Well, tell her to go to our almoner,” said the lady: 
“ we never trouble ourselves with such matters ; but first 


SOWING THE SEED, 


49 


she must make haste and bring us some cool, fresh water, 
for which we condescended to stop at her hovel.” 

Poor Snowflake ! She bowed her head with shame and 
sorrow, and went to do her sister's bidding. 

While she was gone a gallant company came galloping 
down the road from the opposite direction, and when she 
returned she was surprised to find every thing in confusion — 
horses plunging and rearing, and men cursing and abusing 
each other — one party seeming determined to pass, while 
the other was as determined to bar the way. A lady, 
mounted on a black horse — whom she recognized as Azure, 
though so changed, oh, so wonderfully changed ! — was riding 
fearlessly about, and calling upon the attendants, who sur- 
rounded her with drawn weapons, to cut their way through, 
while Coral, with her head out of her coach window, was 
commanding her guards not to dare to let any one pass. 

” Cut down that painted minx if she attempts to ride 
through your ranks,” she cried. 

” Drag that hideous wretch out of her gilded wagon, and 
trample her under foot,” shouted her rival. 

At these words Coral sank back on the seat of her coach, 
livid with rage, and the melee continued. Just then Azure 
caught sight of Snowflake standing with the pitcher in her 
hands. 

” Here — you — woman,” she cried, ” bring me that water ; 
I’m dying of thirst.” 

” Don’t you dare,” said Coral, holding up her hand men- 
acingly. 

Snowflake stood irresolute; and at that moment Azure’s fol- 
lowers, taking advantage of their adversaries’ attention being 
attracted to what was going on behind them, made a rush, 
broke the ranks of the guard, upsetting some and wounding 
others, and went by like a whirlwind. Coral, overwhelmed 
with humiliation, and pale with anger at the defeat of her 
party, forgot all about Snowflake and the water, and ordered 
her coachman to drive on ; which he did at a rapid trot, ac- 
companied by the whole cavalcade, save those who had been 
dismounted, and who v/ere left to follow whenever they 
could regain their steeds. 

Poor little Snowflake re- entered her cottage, bewildered 
by the turmoil, ashamed for her sisters, and almost heart- 
broken for herself, and sat down and cried. But after she 
had had a good hearty cry and dried her eyes, reason came 
to her aid. “Why,” whispered reason — it was reason, 
though she thought it was the fairy whispering to her — 
“ why should you be ashamed for people who are not 


so 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


ashamed for themselves ? and why should you grieve over 
the loss of love which could not stand the test of pros- 
perity ? Come, think no more of these things, but do your 
duty, and all will be well.*’ 

She followed this good advice which reason gave, and was 
soon the same happy, contented little maiden as before. 

While the quarrel was progressing between the followers 
of the two sisters, a little old woman, with dry, parched skin 
and fiery black eyes, had stood a little distance off, leaning 
on a crutch-stick, and evidently enjoying the scene. When 
the grand rush of Azure’s company settled the fortunes of 
the day, and nothing was to be seen but two clouds of dust 
rapidly receding from each other, the old woman shook her 
staff in either direction, and struck the ground savagely 
with it three times. 

“ O ye proud upstarts !” she said ; “ very fine ladies ye 
think yourselves, doubtless ; but neither wealth nor beauty 
can make a lady out of a vulgar upstart. Ye are unfit to be 
aught else but that ye have always been. 

Pass away wealth, pass away beauty. 

Malignant sprites, now do your duty. 

As for you,” she continued, turning to Snowflake’s humble 
home, ” you think yourself good ; but if you really were, 
you would have noticed an old woman standing at your 
very door, and offered her at least a draught of water. I 
hope some evil will befall you, hypocrite that you are.” 

The old woman was a spiteful fairy ; but with all her de- 
sire to harm, she knew she had no power over those who are 
truly good, and with an angry gesture and a look of disap- 
pointed malevolence she turned and went her way. 

In the mean time Coral, almost bursting with rage, lay 
back in her gilded coach and tried to console herself with 
thoughts of her wealth and power. She so far succeeded 
in this that she gradually dozed off and fell asleep. She 
had no idea how long she slept, but her senses were 
aroused before she opened her eyes by sounds such as she 
had heard often enough formerly, but to which she had not 
of late been accustomed : ” Gee — haw — get up. Spotty — - 
woh, ah — Blacky,” and other like cries, mingled with the 
loud cracking of a whip, ribald laughter, the coarse talk of 
men and women, and the barking and snapping of curs. 

She unclosed her eyes with angry astonishment, and was 
about to demand of her guards why they did not drive away 
the people who were making all this vulgar noise ; but the 
horror of the situation in which she found herself rendered 


SOPV/NG THE SEED, 


SI 

her speechless and almost caused her to faint. She sank 
back with blanched cheeks, hoping and praying that it might 
be a dream. But it was no dream. Dressed in rags and 
tatters, she was lying on an ox cart with her head propped 
upon a sack of wool, while all around her was a motley 
throng of rustics and beggars, followed by their barking and 
snarling dogs. It was some time before she could summon 
resolution to take another look, but at last, fully convinced 
that she was not dreaming, she raised herself up and called 
to the noisy driver to stop. 

‘‘Hullo, missus,” said the man good-naturedly, “so 
you be waked up at last, eh ? Well, ’pon my soul, I thought 
you was a gwine to sleep till doomsday. But what will ye, 
now ?” 

” Where am I ?” she asked. 

” Well, now, bless your heart, can’t ye see for yourself? 
You’re in my cart, to be sure.” 

” But where is my coach, and what has become of my re- 
tainers ?” 

The man looked at his companions and grinned, and 
they, less considerate than he, shouted with laughter. 

‘‘What do you mean by such rudeness?” she said an- 
grily. 

‘‘ We don’t mean to be rude, missus,” said the ox-driver, 
” but we don’t just quite understand ye.” 

‘‘ Where are all my people, and my coach, and my 
horses ?” she repeated. ‘‘ Do you understand that ?” 

‘‘Now bless us and save us,” said the man, ” did any- 
body ever hear sich talk as that? Come, come, missus,” 
he continued soothingly, ‘‘ ye must a been a dreamin’. We 
ain’t seed no coach nor no horses, nor yit no people, ’cept 
weselves ; but ye’re quite welcome to ride in the cart as 
long as ye like.” 

But I don’t want to ride in your dirty cart,” she re- 
plied indignantly. ‘‘ I will find my coach and go back to 
my castle, and you shall see if you can laugh at me with im- 
punity and clambering out of the despised vehicle, she 
pushed her way through the rabble that surrounded her, 
amid shouts and jeers of derision. 

Walking rapidly, to get out of hearing of their mocking 
voices, and looking about in vain for her coach and her late 
gay companions as she went along, she at last came to a 
place that seemed familiar to her, and sat down by the road- 
side, weary and sick at heart. What had become of all her 
grandeur ; and where were her fine clothes, her beautiful 
horses, and her brave guard ? Had they been attacked and 


52 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


slaughtered, and herself robbed by those wretches whom she 
had just left ? But that surely was impossible ; and after 
vainly trying to solve the mystery in some way that would 
leave her a slender thread to hang a hope on, she got up 
and pursued her way towards her old home. “ I must have 
been dreaming,*' she said, as she walked along, “ and those 
people, finding me asleep, have robbed me and dressed me in 
these rags. I wonder what Snowflake and Aziire will say 
when they see me?” But just as she reached the cottage 
she met Azure in the same plight as herself, coming from 
the opposite direction, and then she knew she had not been 
dreaming. 

Azure, like her sister, had fallen asleep as she rode along 
to Fantasie Hall, and when she awoke, instead of her hand- 
some black steed, had found herself mounted on a rough, half- 
starved donkey, surrounded by a tatterdemalion crew of 
beggars, who hailed her as the queen of the beggars. Not 
liking either the title or position, she had slid off of her lit- 
tle donkey — who set up a terrible braying as she did so — 
and ran away, wondering what had become of her fine steed 
and brilliant cavalcade of gentlemen and ladies. 

When the two sisters beheld each other they started back 
in surprise, and it was some time before either addressed a 
word to the other. They remembered perfectly well their 
recent rencontre on this very same spot, but after the first 
moment of astonishment had passed, seemed tacitly to 
agree to ignore that affair altogether, and entering the cot- 
tage, presented themselves to Snowflake. Like many peo- 
ple, who, having lost their riches, find it convenient to cul- 
tivate the friendship of those whom they treated with dis- 
dain in the days of their prosperity. Coral and Azure acted 
as though nothing unusual had occurred, pretending to 
have forgotten the circumstances of their recent fray, and 
the manner in which they had both treated their younger 
sister. She never reminded them of their cruel behavior by 
word or act, but received them with affectionate delight, 
mingled with commiseration for the miserable condition in 
which they returned to her. She helped them take off their 
rags, which were replaced with some of their own clothes — 
that she had carefully laid away when they disappeared from 
home — and ministered to their comfort in every way possi- 
ble ; and soon the little household was going on in the same 
manner as formerly — Snowflake doing all the work, and her 
sisters spending their time in idle amusements, never seem- 
ing to consider that there was any thing wrong in this state 
of affairs. To all appearance they were very content to 


SOWING THE SEED. 


S3 


come back to the old life ; but, in truth, they never ceased 
to regret their fallen estate, and each took advantage of the 
first occasion when she thought her absence would be un- 
noticed, to climb to the top of the hills to see if her fairy 
built mansion was still in existence ; but not a sign of the 
castle in Spain or Fantasie Hall was to be seen, and with 
the certainty that these places no longer existed, the last 
hope which the two girls had clung to in their secret hearts 
fled forever. 

Sylvia sat in a sort of maze, gazing absently upon the wa- 
ters of the lake, while her audience praised her talents as a 
raconteur. She did not seem to hear what they said, and 
Oliver whispered to Alford that she generally remained in 
that dreamy state a little while after telling one of her sto- 
ries. “ And this is a new one,’' he added ; at least I 
never heard it before.” 

” She has a wonderful fancy for one so young,” said the 
artist, ” and she seems to weave her fancies into words 
without any hesitation ; and, I must confess, that surprises 
me in a girl raised among simple country-folk as she has 
been. ” 

” Ah !” said the school -master, ” that is so ; but Sylvia 
has read a great deal, and knowing the bent of her genius, I 
have managed to procure books for her which I thought — 
and, I perceive, with good reason — would assist and guide 
her thoughts. I am not one of those who believe in curb- 
ing the fancy of childhood, but rather in directing it into a 
healthy channel. You may say, as many do, that fairy tales 
are not very healthy fruit for the tree of fancy to bear, but 
I will not admit this in all cases. I can well remember the 
wholesome influence which some fairy tales exercised over 
my moral faculties when I was a child. The child who can 
weave from her fancy the story we have just heard will 
some day accomplish something of a higher order.” 

” I have no doubt of it,” replied Alford, “as Giotto, who 
began by drawing sheep in the sand, ended by executing 
some of the finest works now in existence. But come, the sun 
is getting low, and I think we had better be starting home- 
ward. What think you. Miss Sylvia?” 

“I am ready,” replied the girl, sighing gently as she 
came out of her reverie. 

While Sylvia had been relating the fairy tale, Alford had 
been busy with his pencil, and Oliver’s attention had been 
divided between the two. He now looked at the painter 
and said, ‘ ‘ May I tell her what you have been doing ?’ ’ 


54 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ Certainly/* was the response. “ I intended to tell her 
myself, but you may do so.’* 

“ Mr. Alford has been painting a picture of you, Sylvy ; 
did you know it ?’ ’ said the boy. 

“ No, I did not,” replied his sister ; and th^n turning to 
the young man, she asked, ” May I see it ?” 

” Of course you may,” he said, opening his sketch-box 
and displaying an exquisite sketch of the lovely girl as she 
sat wrapt in thought. 

” Oh !” she said, and her eyes brightened with pleasure. 
“ Is it like me?” 

” How can you ask such a question ?” said her brother. 
” Of course it is like you.” 

” I didn’t know,” she murmured thoughtfully, as she 
continued to gaze on the picture. ” I suppose people can- 
not always tell if their pictures are like them.” 

It was only an unfinished sketch, of course ; but the like- 
ness was good, and there was an aria pensarosa in the ex- 
pression of tlie face and the pose of the figure which gave it 
a poetic charm that was very pleasing to Sylvia. 

” I think you must have flattered me,” she said at last, 
turning to the painter ; ” the face and the figure may be like 
— I suppose they are — but there is something, a something 
that I cannot explain in words, but which I feel, and which 
I am sure does not belong to me.” 

” No, my child,” said Mr. Dinning, who had been 
silently examining the picture, ” the artist has not flattered 
you ; he has simply painted you with the expression you 
had at the time the picture was painted. It is not your 
ordinary look, but still it is a look very natural to you at 
times — when your imagination is busy, I should say.” 

Sylvia blushed and seemed pleased, but made no further 
remark, and they prepared to return home. 

” I painted this picture as a souvenir of the occasion,” 
said Alford. ” You do not object to my keeping it, do 
you ?” 

” Why should I?” said the girl, with artless simplicity. 
” Is it not an honor to be the chosen subject of the artist’s 
pencil ?” 

” Perhaps it is,” said the painter ; ” certainly, if the artist 
is great. At any rate, I will take this to Italy with me, and 
who knows but that I may some day paint a picture from it 
which shall make me famous.” 

” I hope you will. But I didn’t know that you expected 
to go to Italy.” 

‘ ‘ I have never mentioned it, I know ; but I intended to 


ALFORD'S EARLY LIFE, SS 

tell you all before I left. I shall sail in the course of two 
weeks.” 

” Italy,” said Sylvia musingly ; ” how I would like to go 
there ; how often I have wished that I were a bird that I 
might fly there !” 

” And perhaps be shot as soon as you got there, and 
baked in a pie, to be devoured by some voracious Italian,” 
said her companion, laughing. 

”0 Mr. Alford ! how can you destroy all my pretty 
dreams in that way ?” 

“Well, truly, I beg your pardon, Miss Sylvia, but the 
temptation was irresistible. Let us hope that you may go 
there in prop7'ia persona some day.” 

“I go there !” said Sylvia, looking at him with wide 
open eyes ; “ nothing so impossible could be imagined.” 

“How do you know that?” said Alford. “Things 
much more impossible — in seeming — have happened. A few 
years ago I should have thought that I was losing my senses 
if I had even dreamed of the possibility of my ever going to 
Italy.” 

The latter part of this conversation occurred as they 
walked along, and the school-master and Oliver were a little 
distance in advance. Italy is an inexhaustible theme to all 
enthusiastic and poetic young people, and they were still 
dwelling on the delights of a sojourn in that beautiful land 
when they arrived in sight of the farm-house. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ALFORD RELATES THE STORY OF HIS EARLY LIFE. 

When the little household were gathered around the sup- 
per table, Alford took occasion to inform his friends that he 
would take his departure in a few days, thanking them at 
the same time for the kind treatment which he had experi- 
enced during his stay among them. 

“ Well, sir,” said David Maxwell, “ we are sorry to hear 
that you are going. You came among us a stranger, but I 
think I speak for all when I say that we now look upon you 
as' a friend, and we hope it may not be long before we see 
you again. Whenever you choose to return, you will bt 
heartily welcomed.” 

“ Thanks, thanks,” replied Alford, touched by the kindly 
hospitality of the old farmer. “ I hope I shall be able some 


56 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


day to avail myself of your hospitable invitation ; but sev- 
eral years will probably pass before I am in this region 
again.” 

” How so ?” asked his host. 

“ I expect to sail for Europe in the course of two weeks.” 

” Europe ! and what may be taking you there, if I may 
ask ?” 

” The study of my profession,” was the reply. 

” Ah !” said the old man dubiously, for he could not un- 
derstand why any one should go so far and spend so much 
time in learning to make pictures ; but he made no further 
remark, considering, as he afterwards said, that every man 
ought to know his own business best. 

” And how do your parents like the idea of your leaving 
them to go so far away ; and across the sea, too ?” asked 
Mrs. Maxwell. 

” My parents have little to say in the matter,” replied 
the young man. ‘‘I left the shelter of their roof several 
years ago, with their full consent ; but you will be better 
able to understand my position if I tell you something of my 
early life and future prospects.” 

As all expressed a desire to hear his story, they withdrew 
from the supper-table to the front portico, where, seated in 
the light of the mellow moon, he commenced his autobiog- 
raphy. 


HIS BOYHOOD. 

“ I was born in a poor little hamlet about thirty miles 
from here — you have probably heard of the place, Talbots- 
ville — and the recollections of my childhood are connected 
with nothing but poverty. The inhabitants of my native 
village, as you probably know, are extremely poor, and my 
parents are but little better off than their fellow-citizens, ex- 
cept that they are better educated, which only makes their 
present position the more intolerable. They and the clergy- 
man, who officiates in a small church which was erected by 
some benevolent society, are the only persons living in the 
place whose manners or intelligence are anyways superior to 
those of your most ordinary plough-hand. There was at 
the time I left there a young man who pretended to teach a 
school ; but his stock of learning was very limited, and he 
has since found it more to his pecuniary advantage to turn 
his attention to cobbling, which calling he now pursues as 
an itinerant. 

” As the institution of learning presided over by this 


ALFORD'S EARLY LLFE. 


57 


genius was the only one within reach, of course I was sent 
there to pick up such crumbs of knowledge as I could ; and 
they were little enough, you may well believe. 

“ I early evinced an inclination towards the fine arts — 
though in their most debased form — and the greater part of 
my time was spent in drawing caricatures, with which I 
freely embellished my slate and copy-books ; the school- 
master himself being a frequent and favorite subject for my 
erratic pencil. He sometimes detected me in these delin- 
quencies, but being a good-natured fellow, only laughed 
when he should have reprimanded, and told me 1 had better 
attend to my lessons, which excellent advice I cannot re- 
member to have followed to any great extent. So, you per- 
ceive, I had but a slim chance of obtaining an education, 
and that chance, slim as it was, I neglected. 

“ I always went about with a piece of chalk in my pocket 
— which I am sorry to say I became possessed of surrep- 
titiously, it belonging, by right, to the school — and no place 
was too sacred to be exempt from my early efforts at design. 
The church door especially — it being wide and smooth, and 
painted a dark color — furnished me with a splendid surface 
on which to exercise my fancy, and the pious denizens of 
the village were frequently shocked, when they went to 
church, to find an absurd caricature of their pastor, or some 
leading member of his flock, staring at them in the guise of 
an angel of the wrong sort. The old women would lift up 
their hands in holy horror, and exclaim, “ It’s some o’ Jem 
Alford’s doin’s” — for my artistic propensities were well 
known ; while the men, laughing in their sleeves at the ab- 
surdity of my performances, would join them in devoting 
my precious soul to a place of everlasting torment. 

“ Parson Elmore himself, however, never got an oppor- 
tunity of seeing those diabolical designs, owing to the good- 
nature of his congregation, who always carefully erased 
them before his arrival at the church ; but of course it was 
not long before he heard of an impertinence which was of 
weekly recurrence, and one Sunday morning he went to the 
church earlier than usual to satisfy his curiosity, which had 
been aroused by the reports that got abroad. 

“ I had just completed one of my most extraordinary pro- 
ductions, when I saw him approaching, and quickly hiding 
behind a tombstone — under the shelter of which I had often 
enjoyed the commotion excited among the sheep by my 
handiwork — I waited, with anxiety, to see what effect it 
would have upon the shepherd himself. 

“ I could not see the parson’s face from where I stood ; 


58 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


but I heard him chuckling to himself, and saw him take a 
note-book from his pocket, and, Sunday though it was, pro- 
ceed to make a copy of my drawing ; a circumstance which 
troubled me considerably, as I imagined he contemplated 
using the sketch at some future time for my confusion. 
When he had finished his copy, he carefully rubbed out the 
original and walked away, smiling as if some pleasant 
thought occupied his mind. From that moment I resolved 
never to make use of my rude skill again to slander the good 
man’s personal appearance, and to that resolution I faith- 
fully held. How different would it have been had he ex- 
hibited his ire and poured his wrath out, in a sermon, on my 
head ! So perverse is human nature, that such a course on 
his part would only have provoked me to irritate him still 
further ; whereas now I hadn’t the meanness to trespass 
upon his good-nature. 

“It so happened that this circumstance was the direct 
cause of an entire change in my life. 

“ A few months after the occurrence of this incident a 
wealthy gentleman from Baltimore came into our part of 
the country to look after lands which he had purchased, and 
the clergyman’s being the only house where any thing like 
comfortable quarters were to be had — the good man himself 
being a bachelor, and glad of a little congenial company 
now and then — he took up his abode there. 

“ A few days after the stranger’s arrival among us I re^ 
ceived a message requesting my presence at the parsonage. 
You may well imagine that it was with considerable trepida- 
tion I prepared to obey the summons, for I had not forgot- 
ten that Mr. Elmore had a copy of my last artistic perform- 
ance on the church door. 

“ On reaching the house I was ushered into the library, 
where sat the host and his guest. The latter was a striking- 
looking man, with a fine intellectual head, and the most 
magnificent pair of honest eyes that I ever saw. I pulled 
off my hat, with a very awkward attempt at a bow, and ner- 
vously waited to be addressed. 

“ The gentleman spoke a few words to his host in an un- 
dertone, and then turning to me, said, ‘ Come nearer, my 
lad ; I have a few words to say to you.’ 

“ I approached to within a few steps of him, when he 
drew forth a small memorandum-book, and taking a scrap 
of paper from it, showed me a faithful copy of my caricature 
of the parson. Although I could not help smiling at the 
ludicrous figure I had made that amiable gentleman cut, I 
felt any thing but comfortable at having my misdeeds thus 


ALFORD'S EARLY LIFE, 


59 


brought up to witness against me, and stood twisting my hat 
about in a state of mind by no means pleasant. 1 don’t 
know what it was I feared, unless it was a lecture from this 
stranger on the innate depravity of human nature in general 
and boy human nature in particular : however, when I sum- 
moned the courage to look up, and beheld the kindly smile 
that illumined his noble face, my fear took flight on the in- 
stant. 

“ Giving me a little time to recover my self-possession, he 
said, ‘ So you recognize this ingenious little design, I see : 
can you inform us who was the author of the original 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ I stammered, ‘ I did it myself ; but 1 never 
drew any more after that one, and I would like now to beg 
Mr. Elmore’s pardon for ever having taken such a liberty 
with him.’ 

“ That gentleman, who sat laughing at my confusion, 
readily granted me absolution, and asked me how it hap- 
pened that 1 had so far reformed in my habits that 1 no 
longer desecrated his church door with the inspirations of 
my genius. 

“ ‘ Well, sir,’ I replied, ‘ the truth is, I was not very far 
off when you made that copy ; and when I saw how good- 
naturedly you took it, I was ashamed of myself. ’ 

“ ‘ There,’ he said, ‘ that shows how much better it is to 
laugh at a joke — even though it may be at your own ex- 
pense — than to fly into a passion about it. 1 suppose if I 
had showed any annoyance when I saw myself portrayed in 
this absurd style, this boy would still have been guilty of 
what was really a sacrilege, and I should have continued to 
afford cause for amusement to the thoughtless, and irritation 
to the more zealous of my simple-minded flock. I am glad 
to find you are so honest, James Alford,’ he continued, 
turning to me, ‘ and though it does not seem exactly right 
that you should reap good out of your evil deeds, I believe 
that you will rightly appreciate the happy turn which cir- 
cumstances have taken in your favor.’ 

“ With these words he turned to his guest, who said, 

‘ Your pastor and myself, James, think that the sketch be- 
fore us, though belonging to the lowest branch of art, gives 
sufficient evidence of talent to justify the hope that, with 
proper training, you may some day become a clever artist ; 
and I have proposed to him — that is, of course, provided 
you yourself shall be perfectly willing, and the consent of 
your parents can be obtained — to take you home with me 
when I return, and give you the benefit of instruction under 
competent teachers. That for the present : what I may see 


6o 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


fit to do for your further advancement will depend entirely 
upon yourself, and need not be discussed now.’ 

“ I stood for some time perfectly speechless, amazed at 
the wonderful prospect thus suddenly opened before me. 
It was certainly a most unlooked-for event in my life, and it 
is no matter of wonder if all thoughts of my parents — and, 
indeed, every thing else — were lost in the contemplation of 
the delightful vision thus presented to my imagination. I 
had no idea as to what the life of an artist really was — that 
it was in most instances a life of penury and unrequited 
labor. I had read, it is true, an abridged history of art and 
artists, which I had found stowed away with some other old 
books belonging to my father ; but from such a work of 
^ course I could only derive some general information, and 
that, as I have now good reason to know, frequently leads 
to erroneous opinions. Everything connected with painters, 
their lives, and their works, were tinted couleur de rose to 
my young imagination ; and you may well believe that I had 
gone off into a sort of ecstasy or trance when the prospect 
of becoming one of the fraternity was held out to me. I 
was aroused from my dream by the voice of Mr. Hapton — 
that was the gentleman’s name. 

“ ‘ What say you, James ? ’ he said. ‘ If your parents 
will give their consent, are you willing to go with me, a 
stranger, who will take you away from your home and all 
your present associations, to place you in a position to which 
you are unaccustomed ? Remember, after all said and done, 
you will have to work out your own destiny. I can only 
put you in the road : you will have to travel it alone, and 
there are many steep and slippery places to get over. ’ 

“ I told him I would try it if he was willing to trust me. I 
would be sorry to leave my parents, and brothers, and sis- 
ters, of course, but I supposed I should be at liberty to visit 
them occasionally. 

‘‘ ‘ Most assuredly,’ he replied. “ I should hold you in 
very slight esteem if you were willing to snap all family ties 
asunder for sake of any other earthly good.’ 

So it was agreed that he should call and make his prop- 
osition to my parents on the morrow ; and I did not antici- 
pate any very decided opposition to the project on their 
part, for they were sensible people — poor, and blessed with a 
numerous family — and would not fail to perceive the advan- 
tage such an arrangement w'ould be to me. 

“ I said nothing as to the cause of my summons to the 
parsonage when I returned home ; and the next day the 
whole family was thrown into a state of excitement v/hen 


ALFORD'S EARLY LIFE, 


6i 


Mr. Hapton called and desired a private interview with my 
parents. He remained closeted with them some time, and 
when he reappeared my mother followed him, shedding 
many tears. My father, too, looked quite lachr 3 miose, and I 
heard him say, ‘ We would not part with one of our chil- 
dren so, sir ; but we know how little we can do for them, and 
how much to Jem’s advantage it will be in the end. You will 
take good care of the boy, I feel assured. ’ 

“ ‘ As if he were my own son. Be comforted, madam,’ 
turning to my mother, who was weeping freely ; ‘ you shall 
never have occasion to regret having consented to part with 
your son.’ 

“ ' O sir,’ she replied, ‘ it is not that I think I shall re- 
gret it ; it is all true enough what his father has said, I know ; 
but it is hard for the mother to part with her child, even 
though she knows it is for his good.’ 

‘‘ Some further conversation passed between them, which 
ended in my mother promising that I should be ready to 
start by ten o’clock the next day. Then our visitor went 
away. 

“ All this time my brothers and sisters had been looking 
on with an air of bewilderment ; but now, when it was ex- 
plained that 1 was about to leave them, they set up a wail of 
distress, and as the hour approached when I was to take my 
departure, I found that the prospect of a long separation 
had made them very dear to me — even the biggest one of 
the lot, who, presuming on his seniority, had always been a 
sort of petty tyrant in the family. 

“ The next day, at the hour appointed, we started in the 
hack which had brought Mr. Hapton to our village, for the 
railway station, which was five miles distant. 

“ ‘ Well, James,’ said my kind friend, when I had taken 
my last farewell look at my home, and wiped the last tear 
from my swollen eyes, ‘ you have left your old life behind 
you, and the new existence into which you are about to 
enter is full of difficulties that you know nothing of. You 
will need a good stock of courage and indomitable persever- 
ance to overcome them, I can tell you ; and unless you do 
overcome them, you will sink to the rank of mediocrity, in 
which case it were better that I had left you where I found 
you. There you would be able to earn your bread by the 
sweat of your brow, and bread so earned is sweet, and the 
rest which follows refreshing, undisturbed by the fitful 
dreams of balked ambition : ah ! far better that than to be 

* The toiling drudge in the world of art. 

With racking brain and aching heart.’ 


62 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


* As you say, sir,* I replied, ‘ I do not know what these 
difficulties are of which you speak, my only knowledge of 
the world and its ways being derived from the few books I 
have read ; but whatever they are, and however hard to 
overcome, the prospect before me seems so much brighter 
than any thing I ever dreamed of, that I would face them 
even though I knew they were insurmountable.* 

“ ‘ Bravely spoken, my boy,* he said ; ‘ but you must not 
enter upon your career entirely ignorant of what you will 
have to undergo. To become an artist of the highest order 
you will have, for a time, and from the very start, to lay 
aside much in which the artist-soul delights — you will have 
to shut your imagination up — imprison it, as it were, and 
clip the wings of your fancy until you have built a tower of 
strength — a solid angular edifice — in the erection of which 
you shall have gained manual dexterity and a thorough 
knowledge of fundamental laws, without which genius will 
be of little avail. Do you understand me ? * 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,* I replied, ‘ I think I do.* 

“ ‘ But,* he continued, ‘ hard as this may seem to you at 
first, it is really nothing to what you may have to endure. 
Let us suppose your probationary term as a student over, 
and you engaged, in the silence and solitude of your studio, 
on some ambitious work by which you expect to establish 
your reputation. You labor indefatigably, grudging neither 
time nor toil ; the power of production is in you ; you feel it. 
When your picture is finished, and you are ready to put 
your fortune to the test, you cannot eat, you cannot sleep, 
and a nervous restlessness takes possession of you. Alas ! 
how hard it is to make others feel and see the latent power 
within us ! You recognize that fact at the last moment, 
and your heart is filled with a gnawing anxiety ; you are 
almost ready to destroy the work on which you have spent 
so much time and labor, and in the success of which you 
had but a little time before such overweening confidence. 
And perhaps when your picture is exhibited, though it may 
be possessed of rare merits, the artists and critics may fail 
to appreciate it — especially if you have been bold enough to 
be original. So you may, perchance, be doomed to wear 
your life away in poverty and sorrow, doing work that enti- 
tles you to a high position in the ranks of your profession ; 
but which fails to procure it, and the true merit of which 
may never be discovered until you are past reaping the ben- 
efit of the discovery. Many such cases have been and will 
be again.* 

‘ ‘ Perceiving that I was sunk in a moody reverie, and ap- 


ALFORD'S EARLY LLFE, 63 

parently fearing that his words had somewhat damped my 
ardor, he went on in a different strain. 

“ ‘ I do not speak thus to discourage you,’ he said, ‘ but 
I wish you to understand the responsibilities and difficulties 
attending the step you are about to take. You certainly 
will begin your career under more favorable auspices than 
many who have written their names high on the roll of 
honor. There have been some great artists v/ho could only 
devote a moiety of their time to the shrine of ambition ; the 
greater part being sacrificed to the Moloch of necessity, in 
order to keep body and soul together ; and others again 
have risen through the slums and sloughs of the most un- 
congenial surroundings to the very pinnacle of fame, 
whither the star of their genius guided them unerringly, in 
spite of every obstacle. You are marvellougly fortunate 
compared to them. I take upon myself the care of your 
bodily comfort during your pupilage, and intend to place 
you in a position where you will only have to be diligent, 
and make the best use of your time and the talent which 
God has given you to work out for yourself a future bright 
and prosperous, free from the drudgery and misery which 
so many have to endure. ’ 

“ I thanked him in a shy, boyish way for his kind inten- 
tions towards me, and assured him that I would do my best 
to prove myself worthy of his beneficence. After that, we 
continued our journey in silence until our arrival at the sta- 
tion. 

“ We travelled all that afternoon and the night succeed- 
ing, and arrived in Baltimore just after daybreak. This was 
the first large city that I had ever seen, and you may imag- 
ine my sensations as we drove in the early dawn through its 
handsome streets. The poorest buildings I saw appeared 
like magnificent mansions to my unsophisticated mind ; and 
when, after many turnings and windings, the carriage drew 
up in front of a handsomer house than any I had yet seen, 
and Mr. Hapton alighting, bid me do the same, I thought 
we were about to enter a palace. 

“ The door was opened by a man-servant, neatly dressed, 
but without any ostentatious display of livery, such as I 
have since observed to be so much affected by our simple- 
minded republicans whenever they get rich ; and we passed 
through the hall into a small room opening into a pleasant 
garden at the back of the house. This was Mr. Hapton’s 
private study. It was handsomely furnished — gorgeously, 
it seemed to me then ; and there were several cases of beau- 
tifully bound books, with a desk full of little drawers and 


64 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


Other mysterious nooks and corners. The walls were orna- 
mented with engravings and paintings, which immediately at- 
tracted my attention ; and these being the first works of art 
that I had ever seen, filled me with an unspeakable delight 
which 1 think I shall never forget. Those who have lived 
among pictures all their lives cannot possibly imagine the 
rapture that fills the soul of a raw country lad with an in- 
nate love for such things — a God-given sense of the beauti- 
ful — when he beholds for the first time a real work of art. 
There is something in a first sensation, like that which held 
me spellbound then, that can never be experienced again in 
this life, and which will remain as a sweet morsel in the 
memory for evermore. 

“ Mr. Hapton looked at me with a peculiar smile, but 
said nothing, allowing me to walk around the room and 
enjoy the pictures in my own way. Seating himself at the 
desk, he wrote a few lines on a slip of paper, which having 
folded and addressed, he pulled a red cord that hung close 
at hand, and which I was immediately made aware, by hear- 
ing a faint tinkling sound, was connected with a bell in 
some distant part of the house. In a few minutes a servant 
appeared. 

“ ‘ Here, Thomas,’ said the master, handing him the 
note he had just written, ‘ carry this note to Mr. Hagget ; 
but first show Master Alford to the room over the hall at the 
back of the house. It is pleasanter than the front room, 
James,’ addressing himself to me, ‘ looking out on the gar- 
den. You will have time to take a little rest before break- 
fast is ready, and you will be notified in time to prepare for 
that. ’ 

“ I followed the servant, who ushered me into a com- 
fortable chamber on the second story, where he left me, 
telling me I could take a little nap if I chose to do so, as 
breakfast would not be ready for some time. Acting on his 
suggestion, I pulled off my jacket and shoes, and stretched 
myself on the bed. Oh how delightfully luxurious it was ! — 
a couch for a king it seemed to me. Gazing dreamily at a 
picture representing a beautiful woman with a sweet child in 
her arms, that hung opposite the bed, I soon sunk into 
peaceful slumber. 

“ I don’t know how long I slept, but I know I felt very 
much refreshed when, being awakened by Thomas, I got up, 
and after some little preparation, descended to the break- 
fast room. 

“We had just risen from the table when the arrival of 
Mr. Hagget was announced, and the next moment a little 


ALFOjRD^S early life. 65 

man, with a hump on his back and a long parcel under his 
arm, entered the room. 

“ ‘ Good-morning, Hagget,* said Mr. Hapton. ‘ I sup- 
pose you have brought the required articles ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ replied Hagget, ‘ they are here,’ placing his 
parcel on a side table ; ‘ but, to tell you the truth, sir, I 
would much rather take the young gentleman’s measure and 
make the clothes myself. I can’t recommend these ready- 
made articles.’ 

“ ‘ We will have to be content with them for the present, 
at any rate,’ said Mr. Haptom. ‘ Just give this youth the 
best fit out that you can now, and to-morrow I will bring or 
send him to your shop, and you can take his measure, and 
make him something better and neater at your leisure. ’ 

“ Hagget opened his parcel, and surveying me with an 
eye of measurement, selected coat, waistcoat, and trousers, 
which he handed to me, desiring that I should go to my 
room and put them on. Returning in a few minutes fully 
dressed in my new suit, and feeling any thing but comforta- 
ble, for the clothing was of a style to which I was entirely 
unaccustomed, I was subjected to critical inspection. 

“ ‘ Clothes do make a vast difference, that’s a fact,’ mut- 
tered Hagget to himself — though quite loud enough for me 
to hear him — as he smoothed out the wrinkles and turned 
me about in all manner of lights, awaiting the verdict of his 
customer. 

“ ‘ They are a very good fit, and quite neat enough for 
ordinary wear,’ said that gentleman, after a few moments’ 
contemplation of my revolving figure. 

“ ‘ I am glad you are satisfied, sir,’ said the little tailor ; 
‘ but if the young gentleman will come to my shop to-mor- 
row I will take his measure, and you will see what a differ- 
ence there is between clothes made to a particular figure and 
clothes made to a general pattern of mankind.* 

“ * Very well,’ said Mr. Hapton, laughing, * you shall try 
your skill on him ;’ and Hagget, packing up several other 
suits of clothing, which had not even been looked at, took 
them under his arm and departed quite content. ’ ’ 


66 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


CHAPTER V. 

ALFORD CONTINUES THE STORY OF HIS EARLY LIFE. 

“ After the tailor’s departure, Mr. Hapton led me to a 
long room at the back of the house, the walls of which were 
covered with pictures. This room formed a wing to the 
main building, and was furnished with light by means of a 
skylight that ran the whole length of the roof. At the far- 
ther end was a large glass door connecting it with a conser- 
vatory filled with flowers, whose brilliant and various hues 
dazzled my eyes. Here he told me I would find pleasant 
and instructive entertainment during his absence — which 
was necessitated by business — at the same time handing me 
two catalogues, one appertaining to the pictures, and the 
other to the plants in the conservatory. 

“ When he was gone, I remained for some time in a state 
of bewilderment. It would be impossible to describe my 
feelings as I looked around at the rich treasures of art that 
surrounded me. I was in a maze of delight. I sat down 
on a lounge in the middle of the room, and surrendered my 
whole soul to the quiet ecstasy of the moment. I cannot 
tell how long I remained in this state of beatitude ; but after 
a while there came a desire to examine each picture sepa- 
rately, and then I was puzzled where to begin. I com- 
menced, however, by going from one to another as it hap- 
pened to attract my attention : but I soon found this method 
unsatisfactory ; and then I noticed for the first time the 
numbers on each work, and that recalled to my mind the 
catalogue which I had entirely forgotten. This furnished 
me with the clew I wanted, and I proceeded leisurely to fol- 
low it. The pictures I found were arranged according to 
the age to which they respectively belonged. Those of the 
earlier ages were all copies, of those of more modern times ; 
some were original, and one side of the room was occupied 
entirely by originals, many painted by artists still living. 
To each artist’s name was attached a short biographical 
sketch, with a few remarks regarding his particular merits, 
all of which I read with avidity ; and though Mr. Hapton 
was absent all the morning, not a moment hung heavy on 
my hands. 

I had examined every picture — reading the contents of 
the catalogue as I went along — and had just entered the 
conservatory when my kind friend came in. 


ALFORD'S EARLY LIFE,— CONTINUED, 67 

‘‘ ‘ So you are still here/ he said. ‘ I hope you have en- 
joyed yourself during my absence.' 

“ A great sigh of happiness was all the answer I could 
give him. He seemed to understand, and a sweet smile lit 
up his noble face. 

“ ‘ Come/ he said, ‘ you must not fatigue yourself ; you 
can go through the conservatory another time. We will 
have luncheon, and then I will take you to the studio of the 
artist with whom I intend you to begin your studies.’ 

“ Mr. Ashley lived in a narrow street in a small brick 
house, and when we knocked at the door, a pretty little 
blue-eyed maiden admitted us. Having learned our busi- 
ness, she ushered us into a sitting room, made bright and 
cheery by several character pictures of herself that adorned 
it, and bid us be seated, saying she would tell her papa that 
we were there. After some delay, a little old man, of smil- 
ing, smirking aspect, made his appearance, and seemed 
overwhelmed with delight to see Mr. Hapton, who intro- 
duced me as a future pupil. 

Ah ! ’ said he, turning the sunlight of his smiles upon 
me, whom he had at first entirely ignored. ‘ Nice young 
gentleman — good head — organ of color well developed ’ (he 
had no idea of color himself, I afterwards found out), ‘ but 
really I don’t know how we are to manage it — studio quite 
crowded now, I assure you. ’ 

“'I am sorry to hear that,’ said Mr. Hapton. ‘I 
wished him to begin his studies with you ; but as you have 
no room, I suppose I will have to put him with Hasbrook.’ 

“ Mr. Ashley had been thoughtfully rubbing his nose with 
his finger, as if trying to think of some way out of the diffi- 
culty ; but at the mention of his brother artist’s name a 
smile of contempt curled his thin lips. 

“ ‘ Tut, tut,’ he said, ‘ Hasbrook indeed ! I’m aston- 
ished, Mr. Hapton, that a man who knows as much about 
art as you do should think of him for a minute — a preten- 
tious dauber — a mere caricaturist.’ 

“ It was Mr. Hapton’s turn to smile now ; but his smile 
had altogether a different significance to Mr. Ashley’s. 

‘ Well, what am I to do ? ’ he asked. ‘ You say you are 
already crowded, and Hasbrook is the only other artist per- 
manently settled here.’ 

“ * Let me see,” said the artist, rubbing his nose very hard, 
and appearing very much puzzled — too much so, it seemed 
to me ; for although I was a green country lad, I was by no 
means dull, and it struck me there was a good deal of affec- 
tation in all this — * let me see : perhaps I may be able to 


68 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


arrange to take him, after all. There’s Botcher ; he leaves 
in a few weeks — goes to New York — what for, Heaven only 
knows ; he’ll never learn any more there than he does here ; 
and if necessary I’ll let Master Alford occupy a corner in 
my own private studio until he goes. I’d much rather do 
that than have him go to Hasbrook ; for that would be the 
ruin of him, my dear sir, the total ruin of him, take my 
word for it.’ 

“ ‘ Very well,’ said Mr. Hapton, ‘ we will consider that 
matter settled. Whatever your charges are, I will be re- 
sponsible for their payment.’ So saying, he was about to 
take his leave ; but Mr. Ashley had no idea of letting him 
otf so easily, and insisted upon our going up to his studio. 
His visitor pleaded want of time, but it was of no avail ; he 
was so persistent that he iiad his way, much to my delight, 
for I had a great desire to see the inside of an artist’s 
studio. 

“ The studio was on the second floor, and was a remark- 
ably neat and tidy little affair. There were many pictures 
leaning against the walls or standing upon frames, which I 
knew were easels, though I had never seen one before. The 
artist immediately* proceeded to exhibit his works to the best 
advantage, setting them up, one after another, on a large 
easel, and walking backwards from them, canting his head 
on one side, and screwing his eyes up until they became 
almost invisible. He invariably ended the exhibition of 
each picture with ' What do you think of that ^ ’ in a tone 
that sounded like a symphony running along with the 
speech, and signifying, ‘ Did you ever see any thing so ad- 
mirable ? ’ 

“ Mr. Hapton didn’t say much, and after having seen the 
paintings in his own house I was not surprised. There 
was a correctness in the drawing in all Mr. Ashley’s works 
that I, little as I knew about such things, could not help but 
perceive ; but there was a stiffness, a want of grace, as well 
as a want of ideas, which was also quite as apparent. Not 
one of all the pictures he showed us, and some of them 
were very ambitious — in intention — was as pleasing as the 
portraits of his little daughter that hung in the sitting- 
room. 

“ The artist showed considerable disappointment at not 
being able to extract any encomiums from his visitor — for 
the latter was too honest to express admiration which he 
did not feel — but was somewhat mollified when he received 
an order to finish a picture which he himself seemed to 
think possessed less merit than some of the others, but 


ALFORD^ S EARL Y LIFE,— CONTINUED, 69 

for which he nevertheless asked what seemed to me an ex- 
orbitant price. 

“ On our way to Hagget’s, where I was to stop and have 
my measure taken, Mr. Hapton asked me how I had liked 
the pictures I had seen at Mr. Ashley’s. I candidly told 
him that compared with those I had seen in his own house, 
I thought them poor and tame performances. 

“ ‘ You are quite right,’ he said, ‘ though I hardly ex- 
pected one so young and altogether ignorant of such matter 
to show so much judgment. It is the artist instinct within 
you, I suppose, that leads you aright. However, you must 
not always judge artists by such a standard. There are 
many who, though they may not aspire to the rank of a 
Titian, a Raphael, a Vandyke, or a Rubens, are, neverthe- 
less, men of striking genius, and wonderfully clever in their 
particular branches of art. Mr. Ashley, however, does not 
belong to that class ; he has no genius at all. And now, 
after telling you this, you will probably think it strange that 
I have chosen to place you with him, and I will try and ex- 
plain my reasons for doing so. The fact is, I don’t think a 
man of great genius — who is always more or less erratic — is 
often calculated to make a good instructor, or exactly the 
right kind of person to carry a pupil through that severe 
course of rudimentary training necessary, in my opinion, to 
future success. Such a man, through a feeling of sympathy, 
would be apt to let your fancy run riot without a check, 
while the plodding, methodical man, like Ashley — who draws 
well in a mechanical way — will keep you chained down to 
that routine and fixed set of rules which is really all he 
knows. The imagination is like a wild young horse, and 
must be broken to harness before it can be of any real ser- 
vice to its possessor — though it need not lose any of its 
spirit for being made serviceable.’ 

‘ Well, sir,’ said I, ‘ since you have so small an opinion 
of Mr. Ashley’s merits as an artist, may I ask what induced 
you to purchase one of his pictures ? ’ 

‘‘ ‘ Certainly,’ he replied ; ' your curiosity, under the cir- 
cumstances, is perfectly natural. I bought the picture sim- 
ply because I knew I would thus confer a benefit on a fellow- 
creature ; for Mr. Ashley is far from rich, and the sum he 
will receive I happen to know will assist him greatly at this 
particular time. Wealth, in my opinion, is given us more as 
a means whereby we may do good to others than as a source 
of enjoyment to ourselves ; indeed, used solely for self- 
gratification, wealth is a curse. God will hold the posses- 
sors of the lands and goods of this world — which no sane 


70 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


man can believe were created only for the ben^ l of the few 
— to a strict accountability for their stewardship, you may 
be sure/ 

“ We walked along in silence for some distance, and then 
Mr. Hapton continued, 

“ * Some people might think,’ he said, * that by purchas- 
ing Ashley’s pictures — this is not the first that I have 
bought of him — I encouraged him in the belief that he is a 
great artist. That may be true to a certain extent : but, at 
the same time, I know that nothing I might say or do would 
ever make him believe he was nol a great artist : so whal 
difference does it make ? and why should I not help him to 
the means of living and make him happy ? And, after all, 
what harm does his innocent conceit do ? If I had known 
Mr. Ashley when he was a young man, just starting out in 
his career, I might have advised him to leave the brush 
alone, and put his hand to something else, for which he was 
better fitted ; but as it is, he has spent his life in the pursuit 
of a shadow which God never gave him the genius to seize 
and form into substance, and cruel would be the word — if 
it were possible to find such a word — that opened his eyes 
to the fact at this late day. No, let him live on and 
die in the simple delusion which has made his inoffensive 
life a pleasant one. There are those who may buy — as I 
have done — the semblance he offers for sale, and think, in 
their blissful ignorance, that they are purchasing a reality ; 
but that can do no harm, and I know of no better use to 
which such people can put their superfluous cash. If they 
were asked to assist some poor starving wretch, many of 
them would probably refuse ; whereas, in gratifying their 
ambition to be considered connoisseurs in art, they are indi- 
rectly contributing to a charity. ’ 

“ The next day I went to Mr. Ashley’s alone. The old 
gentleman expressed great delight at seeing me so soon again, 
and told me he had discovered that there was a corner in the 
pupils’ room that I could occupy — he probably knew that 
that particular corner was awaiting an occupant the day be- 
fore ; but some people have a way of making great difficul- 
ties about very trifling matters, in order to enhance the value 
of their services. He led me into a room adjoining bis own 
studio, and introduced me to the assembled pupils — of 
whom there were about a dozen — as Master Alfred. 

“ I explained to him that my name was Alford. 

“ ‘ Oh !” he said, ‘ Alfred Alford ; your parents were fond 
of alliteration.’ 

“ With that he left me, saying, as he went out, that he 


ALFORD'S EARLY LLFE,— CONTINUED. 


71 

would retur. shortly and set me to work at something : in 
the mean time I could look around. 

** As soon as he was gone, a young man with very black 
eves, and a turned-up nose very red, addressed me. 

' Bon jour., Alfredus Alfordus,’ he said; and thence- 
forward I was known by no other name among my com- 
panions. 

“ ‘ What did you say ? ’ I asked, going towards him. 

‘‘ ‘ I said bon jour., which is the French for how do you 
do — or rather good-morning, which amounts to about the 
same thing in the long-run. I suppose you don’t speak the 
lingo ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ I replied, ‘ I do not.’ 

“ ‘ No more do I,’ said he. ‘ Can you draw ? ’ and he 
gave his crayon a flourish in the air in front of him. 

“ I made no answer in words to this question ; but, tak- 
ing the crayon from his hand, I drew on the corner of his 
paper a sketch of my future master, with his head canted on 
one side, his mouth perked up, and his little eyes screwed to 
infinitesimal points, as I had seen him looking at his own 
pictures. 

‘‘ ‘ Capital ! ’ he exclaimed, jumping up and slapping his 
leg. ‘ I never saw any thing better : it’s the old man to a 
notch. He’s a very good old fellow, though, let me tell 
you, if he is somewhat of a humbug. Most artists are hum- 
bugs, for that matter ; and if you are going to be the one 
you must learn to be the other — unless you are gifted that 
way naturally, in which case so much the better — you’ll 
have but one thing to learn at a time.’ 

“ This was an entirely new view of the artistic character 
to me, and I suppose my eyes expressed my astonishment, 
for he continued, ‘ You needn’t look so horror-stricken ; it’s 
the truth I’m telling you, young man. Look at our for the 
present fashionable portrait painter, Daubpink — limner — it’s 
a good old word that ought to be applied to all such fellows 
to distinguish them from artists — he’s from New York, and 
comes here to humbug the bread out of better men’s mouths. 
He knows he’s a humbug, too, and laughs at the fools who 
go to him for their red, white, and blues, while he pockets 
their money. ’ 

“ While he was holding forth in this style the rest of the 
students had gathered round to look at my drawing. Some, 
as he had done, pronounced it good ; others made no re- 
marks, smiling in a peculiar ways, as if they thought it droll, 
amusing, but nothing worth passing an opinion on. One 
heavy-looking youth, with leaden eyes, openly expressed his 


72 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


contempt. ‘ Umph,’ he snorted, ‘ it’s nothing but a cari- 
cature. ’ 

“ ‘ A caricature ! ’ exclaimed my red-nosed friend, turn- 
ing upon him quickly ; ‘ you don’t know what you are talking 
about, Botcher. There is not the first element of a cari- 
cature in that : it is simply an excellent likeness of the man 
in an attitude, and with an expression on his face quite com- 
mon to him — ludicrous, laughable, I will admit ; but as 
natural as life. If that is a caricature, so are the two Wel- 
lers — father and son — so is Barkis, Captain Cuttle, Uncle 
Toby, not to speak of Falstaff, Dogberry, and a host of 
other personages — all, I have not the least doubt, drawn 
from life by the immortal authors who introduced them 
to us. No, no, my dear sir ; there is a vast difference be- 
tween humor and burlesque, though I believe there are some 
people who have so little sense of humor in themselves that 
it is impossible for them to draw the line of distinction be- 
tween the two : to those people the pleasantest aspects of 
this life are shut out. But the world is not a graveyard to 
all of us, thank God. ’ 

“ Botcher was so far from being convinced by these argu- 
ments that he went off in a dudgeon, saying he had never 
heard caricature ranked as high art until Mr. Towling un- 
dertook to do it ; but he was glad to receive instruction — 
from whatever source. 

“ No one noticed his ill-humor except to laugh at it — 
Towling said it was his liver that should be held responsi- 
ble, not himself — and as most of the young men were good- 
natured at bottom — a little warped, it is true, by jealousy of 
each other’s particular talents — I was soon upon good terms 
with all except him, and he seemed to have taken a dislike to 
me from the very first exhibition of my skill with the pencil, 
which they all soon found out I had acquired without the 
aid of an instructor.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

ALFORD CONCLUDES THE STORY OF HIS EARLY LIFE. 

” I WAS not long in learning to use my crayons with some 
degree of dexterity, and Mr. Ashley was quite surprised at 
my proficiency. He was a man tied down to rules, and 
kept his pupils tied down in like manner. I have since 
found, as Mr. Hapton had told me, that it was greatly to 
their advantage to be thus curbed at the outset, although 


ALFORD'S EARLY LIFE.— CONCLUDED, 73 

■% 

impatience of his oft-repeated axioms sometimes got the bet- 
ter of me. We did nothing but copy plaster casts taken 
from the works of antiquity — beginning with hands, feet, 
ears, eyes, mouths, noses, and advancing from them to 
heads and figures. 

“ I soon discovered one thing that would have satisfied 
me — if I had needed any such convincing proof — that Mr, 
Ashley was a man without any artistic talent : the attitudes 
of nearly all his figures and the poses of his heads were 
copied from the antique, and like all ideas stolen, either in 
literature or art, lost the grace and beauty of the originals 
under the manipulation of the thief. When I mentioned 
my discovery to Towling, he only laughed, and said that 
was part of the system of humbuggery. 

“ ‘ But,’ said I, ‘ why should he resort to these shifts ? 
I notice that some of his pictures are free from the fault, 
and they are just as good as the others.’ 

“ ‘ O my dear fellow,’ he replied, laughing heartily, * you 
are a babe yet : you have cut some of your teeth, it is 
true ; but your eye-teeth have not yet come through.’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ I asked. 

‘ I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said ; ‘ but I wouldn’t for 
the world let it out to the public — and to tell it to any of 
these other fellows would be just the same as telling it to 
everybody. I wouldn’t do the old man an injury intention- 
ally, for he is a good old fellow, and depends upon all this 
for his living ; but between you and I, and that bust of 
Apollo there, he’s got a big portfolio of engravings — most 
of them quite obsolete — and he makes up his pictures from 
them ; I’ve seen him at it.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Well,’ said I, amazed at this revelation, ‘ I never 
would have believed that a man could do that and yet pass 
for an artist — at least not for long — much less believe him- 
self one, as Mr. Ashley evidently does.’ 

“ ‘ That depends altogether upon the level on which one 
stands,’ said Towling. ‘ Some people have no higher idea 
of the requirements of an artist than his capacity to make 
pictures, no matter how they are made ; and they would see 
nothing more in a Raphael or a Titian than they see in an 
Ashley ; indeed, in many instances they would prefer the 
latter. ’ 

“ Towling is a curious compound of genius and solid 
common-sense — a combination rarely met with. He is a 
splendid draughtsman — bold, vigorous, and unerring. He 
has one great fault, and that is a fondness for alcoholic 
stimulants, and that, he often laughingly says, is the cause of 


74 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


his nasal illumination. He is several years my senior ; but 
that did not prevent our becoming great friends, and indeed 
he was the only one of my fellow pupils with whom I formed 
any intimacy. 

Look here, old fellow,’ he said one day, ‘ do you 
know that you are a very lucky dog ? ’ 

‘Well, I do think I have been very fortunate,’ I re- 
plied — ‘ more so than I ever dreamed I should be ; but to 
what do you particularly allude ? ’ 

“ ‘Why, you are the protege — I hate the word, but I 
can’t find any other to suit just now — of a rich man ; and, 
what is better even than that, in my estimation, the man 
who knows more about art than any other man in Balti- 
more.’ 

“ ‘ Ah !’ said I, ‘ you may well call me lucky ; but you do 
not know half the cause I have for congratulation : my kind 
friend has many other virtues besides his knowledge of art 
and his riches — I believe the world considers the last a vir- 
tue if not the first.’ 

“ ‘ Bravo, Alfredus ! ’ he cried, slapping me on the 
shoulder, ‘ you have found that out, have you ! Let me 
see your gums, my child ; I think you must be cutting those 
eye-teeth. Why, my good boy, don’t you know that that is 
the one great virtue of the nineteenth century — the alpha 
and omega of all excellence. Alpha — he is rich. Now you 
may pack in all the most debasing vices, the most degraded 
ignorance, the most childish follies, the most revolting 
crimes — omega — he is rich, and that one virtue (?) covereth 
all “ as with a blanket.” But come, Alfordus, your good 
friend has a nice collection of pictures, and I have long 
wished to see them ; can’t you get permission to show them 
to me ? ’ 

‘‘ ‘ Certainly,’ I replied, ‘ without a doubt. But if you 
have so long desired to see them, why have you not gone to 
Mr. Hapton, and asked him to permit you to do so ? ’ 

‘‘ ‘ Simply because I knew nothing about him, except that 
he was a rich man ; and my experience of rich men has gen- 
erally been that they are a mass of arrogance and self-con- 
ceit, considering those who have no money — their sme qua 
non — of no account, and treating them accordingly.’ 

‘‘ I obtained the desired permission ; and when I took 
him into Mr. Hapton ’s little gallery I never saw a fellow so 
delighted in my life. 

‘‘ ‘ And these are the first pictures you ever saw ? ’ he said. 

‘‘ ‘ Yes,’ I replied, ‘ with the exception of a few in the 
library, and one in my own bedroom upstairs,’ 


ALFORD^ S EARLY LIFE.— CONCLUDED, 


75 


“ ‘ Well, I will not try to imagine what your sensations 
were, for I have been accustomed to pictures of one sort or 
another all my life ; but I think if it had have been I, I 
should ]}a,ve felt as if I had suddenly dropped into para- 
dise.’ 

“ I had been studying with Mr. Ashley about three years, 
when one morning Towling came in in a state of wonderful 
excitement. I looked at him suspiciously, for I feared he 
had been taking too much of his favorite stimulant. He 
noticed it and laughed. 

“ ‘ What is it, Alfredus Alfordus ? ’ he asked ; ‘ do you 
think I have been overdoing the alcohol business ? Never 
fear, my boy, Thomas Towling will never invest too heavily 
in a business that he knows doesn’t pay in the long-run.’ 

“ I didn’t disclaim my suspicions, and could not suppress 
a smile of incredulity. 

“ ‘ You don’t believe me,’ he said. ' Well, I don’t know 
that you are to be blamed ; a fellow who drinks is always 
supposed to be drunk when any thing extraordinary hap- 
pens, and he is a little more excited than usual.’ 

“ ‘ What has happened ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Ah !’ he replied, ‘ cause for laughing, and cause for 
weeping. ’ 

* I will laugh, but you shall weep, 

When the sea shall roll between us.’ ” 

“ He sang these two lines, snapping his fingers like casta- 
nets, and looking so decidedly wild about the eyes that I 
was by no means reassured with regard to his condition ; 
and I am sure if any of the other students had been pres- 
ent they would have thought as I did. They had none of 
them arrived, however — they were generally a lazy set — and 
I was glad of it, for I hoped to get him out of the way be- 
fore any one else had seen him. 

“ ‘ Come, come, Alfredus,’ he said, ‘ don’t look so 
shocked ; I’m not drunk, I assure you, and I’d relieve your 
mind at once,* my excellent young friend, but really I am 
afraid.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ Afraid ! ’ I cried ; ‘ of what are you afraid ? ’ 

“ ‘ Tears — scalding tears. Alas ! my poor boy, you are 
about to lose your mentor — your Socrates — your Plato ; and 
when he is gone, whither will your inexperienced footsteps 
stray ? ’ 

“I was more than ever convinced now that my friend 
was drunk or crazy, and the former I thought by far the 
most probable, and determined to get him out of the way as 
soon as possible. 


76 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


' Come, Towling,* I said, in a persuasive tone, ‘ let’s go 
for a walk.’ We had been in the habit of taking long 
tramps in the country together. 

“ He perceived my object, and there was a merry twinkle 
in his bright black eyes as he sung, 

* In the days when we went gypsying — 

A long time ago.’ 

‘"‘But in sober earnest — and I’m perfectly sober. I’ll 
swear to you, if necessary — I have something to tell you that 
I fear you will not much like to hear — that is, if you are 
really as fond of my society as you always appear to be.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ What is it ? ’ I asked, seeing now that he was really in 
earnest. 

‘‘ ‘ I’m going away.’ 

** * Going away ! ’ I repeated ; and a sudden feeling of 
loneliness came over me in anticipation of the approaching 
loss of his companionship, which had become very precious 
to me. ‘ Where are you going ? to New York ? ’ 

‘‘ ‘ New York ! — no, not to New York ; though I have 
often wished that I could afford to go there, even for a year 
or two ; for, let me tell you, there is a school of art growing 
up in that city, with Gray, Huntington, Durand, and others 
that I could mention, at its head, which deserves to be cher- 
ished by all patriotic Americans. But I’m going farther 
than New York : I’m going across the seas — to Italy, my 
boy. What do you think of that ? ’ 

‘ Italy ! ’ I exclaimed. ‘ Why, this /s a sudden change 
for you ; how did it come about ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ he replied in a musing way, and a look of in- 
tense but quiet happiness came into his face that I had 
never seen there before. ‘ Italy — the land of my dreams — 
that only a week ago seemed so far away, almost as far from 
me as heaven. But you wish to know how this great good 
fortune has fallen to my share. My father, as I have often 
told you, is poor, and it has only been by stretching econ- 
omy at home that it has been possible for me to take the 
initiative steps in the profession which I desired to follow. 
My mother has been my chief encourager, for she is proud 
of the genius that she fondly believes her son possesses.’ 

“ ‘ And very justly so,’ I said. 

‘ Well, that is neither here nor there, at present : it’s a 
matter of opinion altogether, and Botcher would tell you 
that he didn’t see it.’ 

“ ‘ Botcher ! ’ I said contemptuously. ‘ Botch, botcher, 
botchest.’ 


ALFORD'S EARLY LIFE.— CONCLUDED. 


77 


“‘Why, hullo, Alfredus,* he cried, laughing, ‘you’re 
getting sarcastic, and that’s not a healthy condition of the 
mind — it’s an evidence of too much bile. But come, I 
must get on with my story before any of those fellows come 
in, for I don’t care to let them into the secrets of my family. 
You must know I have a curious old curmudgeon of an un- 
cle. He is rich ; but with the exception of giving each of 
the brats, as he calls us, a silver cup at the christening, he 
has done nothing for us. The fact is, he’s an old money- 
grub ; and although my mother is his only sister, unless she 
were absolutely starving he would not consider it incum- 
bent on him to do any thing to make life easier to her. The 
silver cup for each of her babies, and always given with a 
grumbling demand as to when the drain will cease, is the 
height and the depth, the length and the breadth, of his 
ideas of generosity. The old chap was perfectly outrageous 
when he heard that one of the brats was going to become an 
artist. 1 had better be put to a trade, he said — he began 
life himself as a carpenter, so you see we are by no means 
aristocratic — and if I behaved myself perhaps he would do 
something for me. But my mother, though as meek as an 
angel, is proud of her children, and resented this proposition 
with becoming dignity. He had nothing more to say on the 
subject after that ; but exercising what appears to be the 
special privilege of rich old cantankerous noodles, cast me 
off. So matters stood for a long time — he never deigning to 
notice me or my drawings, though my mother, loving soul, 
often placed some of the best in his way, hoping against 
hope that they would attract his attention. Bless you, she 
was casting pearls before swine, and I knew it all the time ; 
but I let her have her own way. I don’t know how long 
this would have gone on had not the old fellow been caught 
with the bait that’s best suited to his taste. 

“ ‘ For the past two or three years I have been making 
some money in one way or another — designing for engrav- 
ers, and giving night lessons to boys who wanted to learn to 
draw — and have thus been able to do somewhat towards aid- 
ing the household expenses, besides purchasing little articles 
of furniture that my mother very much needed. Now it so 
happened that one of these pieces of furniture — nothing very 
expensive — attracted the weather eye of old File : that is 
the name he goes by among the “ brats,” not so much in 
allusion to his former trade as to his peculiarly rasping 
nature. 

“ ‘ “ Umph !” he grunted, pointing to it with his cane, 
“ what’s that ?” 


78 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


^ ‘ ‘ My mother mentioned the name of the article — some- 
thing new, and a very convenient thing for ladies. 

“ ‘ “ Ugh ! I don’t know what a body wants with these 
new-fangled concerns. Towling must be getting rich,” he 
sneered, ‘‘ to throw away money in that way ; he’d better 
have bought another cradle — I’ve no doubt he’ll need one 
soon enough.” 

” Mr. Towling is not getting rich, brother Peter,” 
said my mother meekly, without noticing his innuendo ; 
‘‘1 don’t think he ever would get rich if he lived a hundred 
years. I don’t blame him, for 1 know it’s not in him.” 

” ‘ ” Ho, ho, ho ! I rather think not,” laughed the old 
brute ; ” but if he’s not getting rich, what the devil did he 
buy that trumpery thing for ?” 

” ‘ ” Me did not buy it : Thomas bought it,” replied the 
mother proudly. 

” ‘ ” Who did you say ?’ ’ 

”‘”Thomas.” 

” ‘ ” Oh ! so it’s he that’s getting rich, then — /le's going 
to be the millionaire of the family.” 

‘ ‘ ‘ ” He is doing very well, ’ ’ said my mother, ‘ ‘ and 
helps us along a great deal ; but, poor boy, he’s very far 
from being rich.” 

” ' ” Umph ! I didn’t know that he’d ever made a dime in 
his life and he seemed considerably puzzled to understand 
how it was possible for me to do so. 

” ‘ Nevertheless, from that time forward he treated me 
with more consideration, though he sometimes asked me 
sarcastically when I expected to paint pictures worth thou- 
sands of dollars, like that Italian fellow. Raffle — I suppose 
he thinks that is where the idea of a raffle first originated, 
as that is a common way of getting rid of bad pictures. I 
' never paid any attention to him, having a great dislike for 
him, and a particular desire at times to punch his ugly head ; 
so you may imagine my surprise when a day or two ago he 
proposed to send me to Italy. If a thunderbolt had struck 
within a foot of me without hurting me I could not have 
been more astounded. 

” * After a few moments’ consideration on my part, the 
idea seemed so preposterous that I concluded he was joking 
— making game of me in his usual rough way. But he was 
doing nothing of the sort : he was in downright earnest. It 
is not a streak of generosity on his part, however, by any 
means ; it is to be purely a business transaction, in which he 
thinks he sees his way to investing a small portion of his 
capital to advantage. The agreement between us was 


ALFORD* S EARLY LIFE.-^CONCLUDED, 


79 


signed, sealed, and delivered last night, and I am to be off 
as soon as I can get ready. He is to furnish the money to 
pay my passage there, and back, whenever I see fit to return, 
and also to stand all my expenses as long as I am there ; in 
return for which he is to receive all the fruits of the labor of 
my hands, without exception, and I am to work faithfully in 
the production of copies from the old masters and such 
originals as he shall furnish the subjects for. He intends to 
open a picture shop as soon as I can furnish stock enough 
to make a showing, and I haven’t the least doubt but that 
‘he will make money out of his investment.’ 

“ Two years ago Towling left me, as I may say, alone, 
for there was not another one of my fellow pupils for whom 
I had conceived any particular liking. Soon after he left, 
Mr. Hapton told me he had made arrangements with Mr. 
Hasbrook, the artist of whom I had heard him speak to 
Mr. Ashley, and whom that gentleman had pronounced a 
pretentious dauber. 

‘ I think,’ he said, ‘ you are well enough grounded in 
all the fundamental principles of drawing, and steady 
enough to be trusted. Mr. Hasbrook, unlike Mr. Ashley, 
is a man of genius, and has a true and delicate understand- 
ing of nature’s most wonderful secret — a secret hidden from 
all save a chosen few — color. He will not teach you much 
by word of mouth ; but you will learn by observing him ; 
and if you are one of the chosen few you will soon compre- 
hend the method by which he produces certain effects, and, 
though you may not adopt his method — and I would not 
have you do so — it will help you to find a method for your- 
self.’ 

“ Mr. Hasbrook is a grave, earnest man, about forty-five 
years of age — a poor talker, but an indefatigable worker. 
The most irreverent youth would never think of calling him 
‘ old Hasbrook. ’ He seems to paint without any reference 
to the sale of his pictures ; indeed, he never sets any price 
on them ; but if anybody comes in and makes an offer for 
any thing, and it suits him, he accepts — if he does not think 
the price offered sufficient, he simply says no. I have no- 
ticed another peculiarity about him : there is a certain class 
of rich people to whom he will not sell a picture for any 
price. 

I have been with him now two years, and a short time 
ago he went to Mr. Hapton and asked him what he intend- 
ed to do about me ; and their conference ended in the pres- 
ent arrangement for my sojourn in Europe. 

“ I have made annual visits to my parents since I have 


8o 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


lived in Baltimore, and have just come from bidding them 
good-by previous to sailing. I noticed the beauties of this 
region always in passing through it on the train, and as I 
had some time to spare, I walked thus far from Talbotsville 
in order to make a few sketches, which I think I should like 
to have when I am far away in foreign parts to remind me 
of my native land. 

** During the five years that I have been studying the art 
to which I expect to devote my life, I have not neglected 
other studies. Mr. Hapton, who told me that a man who 
knows nothing outside of his profession frequently finds 
himself in an uncomfortable situation when called upon to 
mingle in society, engaged a tutor who came to me at night, 
and I have done my best to improve myself. 

I did not tell you that my friend is a widower. I did 
not know it myself until I had lived in his house more than 
two years. Nearly three years ago he was taken sick and 
confined to his room. He sent for me to come to him, de- 
siring to send some message to his managing clerk, for he is 
the sole proprietor of a large commercial house ; and when 
I obeyed his summons, I found him lying in bed, looking 
very pale and worn. I had never been in that room before, 
and my attention as soon as I entered was attracted to the 
portrait of a beautiful woman, on which his own eyes were 
dwelling with a soft tearfulness of expression that I had 
never seen in them before. 

“ ‘ Good-morning, my dear boy,’ he said ; ‘ you find me 
in a condition to which I am little accustomed — I have sel- 
dom had a spell of sickness in my life — never any thing seri- 
ous but once. ’ 

“ Then noticing that my eyes reverted to the picture, 
even while I returned his salutation, he continued. 

“ * You are struck with that picture,’ he said. ‘ It is the 
portrait of my dead wife — I lost her a few months after we 
were wedded. I had a match to it, painted by the same 
skilful hand, a portrait of my only and dearly loved broth- 
er. He also was taken from me, and the two portraits were 
all I had left of what I held dearest on earth. His pic- 
ture was destroyed through the carelessness of a maid-ser- 
vant. ’ 

** His voice trembled a little ; but this, with the soft tear- 
fulness that still dwelt in his eyes, was the only sign he gave 
of the great sorrow that he carried within his heart. Then 
I understood why it was that there were no females about 
the house — a circumstance that had struck me as strange, 
but to which I had gradually become accustomed. He 


LET US GO TO ROME. 


8i 


changed the subject of conversation immediately after tell- 
ing me this, and has never reverted to it since. ’ ’ 

Ht ^ H: % * H: 

Alford was several evenings relating what I have tran- 

scribed, and the day after he finished his little history he 
departed for the nearest railway station, leaving his rural 
friends full of regret at losing him. Elsie Brown, however, 
was the only one who gave vent to her feelings in words. 

“ I just declar, ” she said, “ I don’t know what a nice 

young man like that wants to go across the stormy seas fur 

— an, like es not, when he gits thar, ter be eat up by wild 
Afrikins. ’ ’ 

“ But he is not going to Africa, Elsie,” said Sylvia ; ” he 
is going to Europe.” 

” Well, I don’t see as it makes any kind er def’rence, ” 
replied Miss Brown ; ” wild Afrikins or wild Eurups, it’s 
all one when a body’s inside ov ’em, I reckon.” 

No one attempted any further explanations for her benefit, 
and Elsie mourned for many a day over the fate of that nice 
young man, Mr. Alfred, whom she insisted must have been 
consumed by ” them hidjious cannibuls” — at least such por- 
tions of him as had not been put down in pickle. 


CHAPTER VII. 

LET US GO TO ROME. 

It was the middle of October when Alford sailed from 
Baltimore — for it was thought best to postpone his depart- 
ure until the autumnal equinox was well over — and Decem- 
ber was close at hand when he drew near to the Eternal 
City. As the pious Mussulman approaches Mecca, so the 
artist approaches Rome. Through a barren desert he slowly 
wends his way ; but he never heeds it : he is transported 
with but one idea — he is approaching the holy of holies — the 
city sacred in his eyes to Raphael and Michel Angelo. 
St. Peter’s and the Vatican are as precious to him as they 
are to the most faithful son of mother church. 

” O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul !” was written 
for poets and artists. They alone understand their brother 
when he thus cries out from the depths of his perturbed 
spirit : they know that he has said all — all in a few words — 
that is needful. It is doubtful if the most enthusiastic relig- 
ious devotee ever experienced such sensations of calm soul-. 


82 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


absorbing joy as the artist feels when he first beholds the 
dome of St. Peter’s looming far away in the misty distance. 

Alford stopped at the Hotel de Minerve^ and the first 
thing he saw, when he went out to seek his friend Towling, 
was the Pantheon, that grand old heathen temple — now con- 
secrated to the living God — beneath whose sacred stones 
repose the ashes of men whose glory still illumes the ancient 
capital of the world. Amid all the memories of the past 
theirs are the dearest. The Caesars themselves are not 
more honored than they. The young artist knew that he 
was in the presence of one of the great monuments of an- 
tiquity, and stopped to gaze upon it with that feeling of awe 
which always subdues us when we look for the first time on 
the work of men who lived thousands of years ago. 

Consulting a little map of the city which he carried in 
his pocket, he threaded the narrow, crooked, dirty streets 
until he arrived at the Corso. He had read much about 
this world-renowned via^ and v/as much disappointed with 
its aspect. It was neither wide, beautiful, nor clean ; but 
there was more life apparent there than he had yet seen. 
He soon came to a portion of the city where both French 
and English were quite freely spoken, and being directed to 
go to Pialli’s as a place for general information with re- 
gard to English and American residents, he found that his 
friend’s habitat was in the Via Fratina, and after a short 
walk he stood at the portal of his studio. He was about to 
knock ; but just as he lifted his hand to do so, the door 
opened, and a woman, whom he rightly supposed to be a 
model, passed out. He entered before the door closed be- 
hind her, and stood still for a few minutes without saying a 
word. Towling was busy working on a picture that stood 
on the easel, humming softly to himself as he plied his 
brush. 

“ Well,” he murmured to himself, backing away from his 
work in order to get a good view of its tout ensemble,, ” I 
think that is pretty fair. The general harmony is not de- 
stroyed by that red cap after all ; but there’s something 
shiny about those lights on the nose, and I don’t know how 
I’m to get rid of it.” 

” Tone ’em down,” said his visitor in a sepulchral voice. 

Towling jumped as if a pistol had gone off close to his 
ear, and turning quickly round, palette and brushes went 
rattling to the floor. 

” Per Bacco !” he cried, ” if it isn’t Alfredus Alfordus — 
or his wraith. Ha ! ’tis he and not his ghost,” he contin- 
ued, as he seized Alford in his arms and gave him a great 


LET US GO TO ROME. 83 

hug. “ O you villain ! why didn’t you let me know you 
were coming ?” 

“ I thought I would give you a surprise,” was the re- 
sponse. 

‘‘Yes, a surprise, and a fit at the same time,” laughed 
Towling. ” Why, I never was so near it in my lite before. 
But I forgive you, old fellow, in consideration of the delight 
that’s mixed up with it all. Ah I che gior7io felicef and he 
gave his friend another hug. 

” So you think I ought to tone down the lights on the 
nose ?” he said, after having made Alford sit down in one of 
the few uncomfortable chairs with which studios in Rome 
are generally furnished. 

“No,” was the reply; “I was only joking, and I 
thought that as good a way as any to introduce myself. 
Your picture is admirable just as it is, and your criticism 
altogether without reason.” 

” Do you think so ?” said the other, looking musingly at 
his work. 

“ Indeed I do. But you must not set a greater value on 
my opinion than it is worth, for you know I am not really a 
competent judge. ” 

” Fudge !” ejaculated Towling. ” I consider a young, 
fresh mind, with a natural taste in such matters, more apt 
to be near the truth than an old worn-out roue in art, called 
by courtesy connoisseur, who has learned to seek just this, 
that, or t’other in a picture, and not finding the one merit 
which he considers essential, sends forth his dictum of con- 
demnation at once, with an air of ‘ ipse dixit., let the world 
know it.’ Why, sir, to hear some of those old asses talk, 
you’d be inclined to think Raphael and Titian knew 
nothing at all, and only hit upon success by accident. 
But come ; I suppose, of course, you have just arrived 
and have seen nothing of Rome as yet. Where are you 
stopping ?” 

‘‘ At the Minerva.” 

‘‘ Why, that is an out-of-the-way sort of place — clear out 
of the American beat. We must try and get you a little den 
like this of mine — a studio with sleeping-room attached. 
This building is a perfect hive of artists from every nation 
under the sun — there is even a Turk here studying the art, 
though I believe it is contrary to the creed of Mahomet. 
Now I think of it, there is a Mexican — a swarthy chap, a 
sort of a mongrel, I take it — who is about to leave. I will see 
the padro7ie.^ and if you would like to be one of the menage- 
rie, I may be able to get his rooms for you.” 


84 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ There is nothing I would like better ; for then I should 
be near my mentor,” said Alford, laughing. 

“ Very well, then ; excuse me a tew minutes,” said his 
friend, “Til not be long; and while I am gone you can 
amuse yourself looking over my sketches.” 

When he was gone, Alford looked around the room with 
some curiosity. The studio of a young artist in Rome is 
not always an attractive place to the eye ; but there is some- 
thing interesting in the heterogeneous mass of objects that 
seem to litter it from one end to the other. Plaster casts — 
generally mutilated — portfolios, pictures, costumes, various 
kinds of drapery, a piece of rusty armor, perhaps, and a few 
articles of furniture — primitive and curious to the eyes of an 
American, and, like most curious and primitive things, very 
uncomfortable when applied to the uses for which they are 
intended — all of which are more or less covered with dust. 
The walls are decorated with sketches — nude figures, groups 
of Italian peasants, the inevitable pifferari, bits of land- 
scape, ruins, etc., and in the midst of all stands the easel 
with an unfinished picture on it. 

All these things possessed a charm for James Alford, who 
had been accustomed to the nicely kept, comfortably fur- 
nished studios of artists in America; and he was by no 
means impatient for his friend’s return. But the latter was 
as good as his word, and was back before he had well begun 
his tour of inspection. 

‘‘ Looking over the rubbish, old fellow?” he said, as he 
came in. 

“ It looks like rubbish, truly, when taken in the lump,” 
replied Alford; “but when examined in detail I’m sure, 
from what I have already looked at, that there would be 
very little rubbish found. These are splendid studies,” 
pointing to a long row of nude figures in every conceivable 
attitude ; “ are they from life ?” 

“ Yes, they are the only things I have thought fit to set in 
order ; but I wanted to mark what improvement I made, so 
I numbered them and arranged them as, they were painted. 
Do you think there is any progress noticeable ?’ ’ 

“ Most assuredly ; and they make me feel like beginning 
work myself. ’ ’ 

“You can do that as soon as you please,” said Towling ; 
“ I have secured the rooms for you at a reasonable rent, 
and our Mexicanp vacates to-morrow, But let us go. We 
will take a little lunch at the Cafe Greco — that’s the place 
where Raphael, Giulio Rornano, Michel Angelo, and those 
old chaps us^ to congregate— and then we’ll take a tramp 


LET US GO TO ROME, 85 

about the city. I suppose you know nobody here except 
myself.'* 

“ I have a letter of introduction to a lady — Mrs. Weston ; 
do you know her ?" 

“ By Jove ! you don't say so ! I am not acquainted 
with the lady ; but there is only one Mrs. Weston here that I 
know of, and if it is she, you are in luck — her daughter is 
about the prettiest girl in Rome. ’ ' 

They soon reached the Cafe Greco, and Alford was sur- 
prised that sucn a dingy, sombre-looking place should be 
the resort of artists : but that it was, he had sufficient evi- 
dence in the eccentric-looking beings by whom he found 
himself surrounded. 

“ And this is the place once frequented by Raphael and 
his confreres^' said Alford, looking about at the dingy sur- 
roundings ; “ I should never imagine it." 

“No," replied Towling, laughing, “nor I. But per- 
haps the fraternity were not so different in those days to 
what they are in these, after all, though our imaginations 
are wont to invest them with a halo of glory which places 
them outside the pale of ordinary human beings. Raphael 
was probably a gay youth, and Giulio Romano a roistering 
blade." 

A party of Germans entered the apartment in which they 
were seated, and with boisterous laughter commenced to 
distribute themselves about among those who were already 
there. They were what would be called a queer-looking 
set — most of them with tawny beards, which looked as if a 
good combing would do them no harm, and none of them 
particularly cleanly in their appearance. One of them ap- 
proached Towling with a smile of recognition. 

" Ha ! Meinherr Towlink," he said, extending his hand, 
which was cordially grasped, “ dat has been for long time 
before I sees you. ’ 

"About a week," replied Towling. "I made a little 
trip to Tivoli, where I stayed several days." 

" Tivoli !" exclaimed the other. Fat you in Tivoli do 
dat long time, mein freund? Vill you die landschaft 
paint ?" 

" Oh no," said Towling ; "I wanted a little rest, and I 
like Tivoli. But let me introduce you to my friend Mr. 
Alford. Meinherr Mouserlarchen, Mr. Alford." 

Alford shook hands with Meinherr Mouserlarchen, who 
took his seat at their table, and continued to talk in his 
broken English. 

"I 'ave shust been to see dat vonderful ting paint by 


86 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


your countryman — Meinherr — Meinherr — ah veil, I done 
forgits his name.” 

“I know who you mean,” said Towling. Well, do 
you like his picture ?’ ’ 

” Ja und nein,” replied the German. 

His companions, though they were ignorant of the German 
language, understood, and looked at him inquiringly, when 
Mein herr Mouserlarchen went on to explain as well as he 
could. He did not understand, he said, why a man possess- 
ing such evident power should clog his genius with an 
eccentric theory : and for what ? — to reach a result in a 
roundabout way, which, unfettered by self-imposed laws, he 
would be certain to arrive at by a more direct road. He 
believed that true genius knew no laws, and if such were im- 
posed upon it, it would break through them, trample them 
under foot, and go straight to the goal at which it aimed. 
Laws beget mannerism, and mannerism kills true art. 

It is well enough for beginners to be instructed in the 
common laws of nature — not of art, which is the progeny of 
nature — and inanimate nature has her common laws, just as 
man has his, even in his savage state ; but when the boy, 
who has begun by drawing a blade ot grass or a stone by 
rule, has grown into an artist, let his genius take wings and 
fly whithersoever it listeth ; it will not fly witnout an aim, 
and it will reach that aim if left untrammelled. If this 
were not so, there would have been nothing new in art after 
the earliest masters. Is the poet bound down by theories ? 
No ! Words are his colors, and the more succinct and 
direct use he makes of them the more beautiful or sublime 
his thoughts appear, clothed in the garb of simplicity and 
truth. 

These were the ideas of Mein herr Mouserlarchen, and 
they may be taken for what they are worth. 

Alford seemed struck with them ; and when the German 
had gone to rejoin his countrymen, who had been loudly 
calling for him, he asked Towling what was his opinion on 
the subject. 

” Oh well,” said Towling, ” I don’t exactly know ; but 
perhaps I agree with our German friend in a measure. I 
don’t see why a man should circle and circle around like a 
hawk over his prey, when by one bold dash he can seize it. 
The fact is,” he continued, ” I think there is a good deal of 
humbuggery about these theoretical painters ; they try to 
maintain a sort of mystery about their work — it has an effect 
on the vulgar, moneyed mind, as if the secret of the Van 
Eycks were still a secret. But come, let us go.” 


LET US GO TO ROME. 87 

“Are there many American artists in Rome?’* asked 
Alford as they left the cafe. 

“Yes, a good many, both painters and sculptors. Do 
you know, Alford, I sometimes wish that I had taken to 
sculpture instead of painting.” 

“ Why ?” asked his friend. 

“ In my opinion,” replied Towling, “ the human form is 
the highest object that the artist can aim at reproducing, 
and it seems to me the sculptor’s mode of dealing with it is 
so much more satisfactory than ours.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps so, ’ ’ said Alford. ‘ ‘ I have seen very little of 
sculpture, as you are aware ; but I feel as if none of the 
charms of that art can possibly compensate for the loss of 
color.” 

As they walked along conversing together, they ap- 
proached the Palazzo Borghese, and Towling proposed that 
they should go through the picture-gallery. 

“ There are some fine things there,” he said, “ but noth- 
ing to what you saw in the Pitti and Ufizzi. I suppose, 
like all true painters, you felt as if you were in the painters’ 
paradise there.” 

” Yes,” replied Alford, “ and when I think of it, I won- 
der how you can say that you prefer sculpture to painting.” 

“ Ah ! wait, my friend, wait until you have visited the 
Vatican, and then your wonder will cease.” 

As they proceeded through the gallery of paintings, 
Alford’s attention was attracted to a young lady who was 
conversing pleasantly with an Italian girl who was copying 
the Cupid in the picture of “ Danse,” by Correggio. She 
was tall and graceful. Her dress was simple and tasteful, 
and her figure lost none of its elegant perfection by over- 
adornment. Her profile, which was turned towards him, 
was perfect, and the hair, a rich auburn, floated away from 
the pure forehead in burnished ripples, and was coiled in a 
luxuriant mass behind the well-shaped head, losing none of 
the rippling nature in its many folds. Her companion was 
pale and poorly clad, with the black eyes and hair common 
to her race. There was nothing particularly remarkable 
about her^ except that there was a shade of melancholy on 
her face, which was only partially dissipated by the mo- 
mentary pleasure she seemed to feel while the beautiful lady 
talked to her. 

Alford stood gazing at the fair girl with undisguised ad- 
miration, until suddenly turning her head, she raised her 
eyes and perceived that he was looking at her, when she 
turned quickly away — not so quickly, however, but that he saw 


88 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


that her full face was as beautiful as the profile, and the 
eyes, a dark lustrous gray, the most beautiful feature of all. 
The blood mounted hotly to his face, and though he saw a 
faint smile flit over the face, as if in amusement at his evi- 
dent confusion, he felt that he had been detected in an im- 
pertinence. In a few minutes Towling joined him — he had 
stopped to speak to a friend who was copying a picture — and 
Alford had sauntered on ahead. 

“ Did you see her V* he asked, “ did you see her 

“ See whom ?’' 

“ Why, Miss Weston. That is she in the other room that 
you have just passed through. But you could hardly have 
failed to notice her.’' 

“ You mean that magnificent girl with the hair of rippling 
gold. I must have been blind to all that is beautiful if I 
had not noticed her. But I didn’t know, of course, that 
she was Miss Weston. Great heavens, Towling ! how shall 
I ever get up courage to speak to such a creature as that ?” 

“ Tut, tut, man, what nonsense ! Why shouldn’t you 
speak to her as well as another ? She’s but a woman after 
all — though a most exceptional one, I’m told, in more re- 
spects than one. If all I have heard is true, you will have 
no difficulty in getting on friendly terms with her. It is 
only those beauties with little brains in whose company a 
modest man feels ill at ease.” 

” I’m afraid I have made a bad beginning of it to start 
with,” said Alford. 

” How so ?” asked the other. “You didn’t speak to 
her, did you ?” 

“ Certainly not ; but I was guilty of the impertinence of 
staring at her, and she caught me at it. By George ! I felt 
like a boy who has been caught depredating in an apple 
orchard, and my first inclination was to break and run. I 
know my face got as red as fire, and it burns yet.” 

“Ha, ha!” laughed his friend, “anybody would know 
you were what is called in America a greeny. Why, the 
most retiring and modest woman gets accustomed to being 
stared at in this country. These Italians are the most im- 
pertinent devils in the world where women are concerned. 
It’s quite a trial to the most of American and English women 
to run the gauntlet of their eyes at first, but they soon 
learn that their only safeguard against downright insult is 
to take no earthly notice of them whatever — not even in 
anger ; for the moment a young girl so far forgets herself as 
to show annoyance, the Italian considers it in the light of 
encouragement, and nothing short of a fracas with some 


LET US go ’ TO ROME. 89 

masculine friend of the persecuted damsel will put a stop to 
the amorous advances of the would-be Lothario/' 

“ From your account these fellows have one virtue at any 
rate. ’ ' 

“ What’s that 

“ Perseverance.” 

” Yes, perseverance in one pursuit. The mystery to me 
is how they live. You see them at all times of day, on the 
streets or lounging about the cafes, dressed in the best, and 
their sole employment seems to be making eyes at women. 
O ye sons of Caesar ! to what have ye fallen ! But come, 
let’s go back and get another look at Miss Weston. I’ll 
tell you what it is, Alfredus, I’d rather look at her than all 
the pictures in the world. Per Bacco ! what a glorious 
thing it would be to paint her !” 

But they only got a glimpse of her as she passed out of 
the gallery, accompanied by a middle-aged lady and gentle- 
man who had been loitering about without, seemingly, any 
definite object in view, for they had never once stopped to 
look at a picture, apparently sufficiently entertained with the 
small talk which they kept up incessantly. 

“ When do you intend to deliver your letter of introduc- 
tion, Alford ?” asked Towling. 

“ I really don’t know,” was the reply. ” I did intend to 
do so to-morrow ; but I think now I’ll put it off for a while 
and give the young lady time to forget our rencontre in the 
gallery.” 

Towling looked at his friend and laughed. ” Alfredus,” 
he said, “I’m at a loss what to think of you — whether to 
credit you with being a very modest youth or a very vain 
one. Are you sure she noticed you at all ? and if she did, 
that the impression you made upon her would be lasting ? 
You are a very good-looking fellow, I know ; but you 
mustn’t arrogate to yourself too much on that score — she’s 
accustomed to good-looking fellows.” 

” It’s not that at all,” replied Alford hastily. ” I’m not 
such an ass as to suppose that I would make an impression 
on a stranger — least of all a beautiful girl like that ; but my 
confusion at being detected in an impertinence was so great 
that she couldn’t help but notice it, and, in fact, I know she 
did.” 

” And is probably laughing at you now.” 

” So much the worse. There is nothing one hates so as 
being laughed at, especially by a pretty girl.” 

” Well, you’re right there, certainly ; but your only 
chance in that case is to laugh with her, so you had better 


90 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


make her acquaintance as soon as possible, and not leave 
her to enjoy the joke at your expense all alone.” 

After visiting one or tv^o more picture-galleries, the two 
young men went to the Minerva, where they had dinner and 
spent the evening together, during which Towling added 
fuel to the lamp — his nose — which shone out of the midst of 
the dark, bushy beard he had cultivated like a beacon out 
of the blackness of night. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ALFORD BEGINS HIS ACQUAINTANCE WITH MRS. AND MISS 
WESTON. 

The next morning Alford, who had slept lightly, owing to 
the pleasant state of mental excitement in which he was for 
the time living, was awakened by the bugles of the French 
garrison answering each other from the seven everlasting 
hills of Rome. There was a charm in the novelty of the 
situation ; and he lay still listening, while to his mind invol- 
untarily recurred those exquisite lines of Tennyson : 

‘‘ The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story ; 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. , 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.*’ 

As the last echoes of the mellow notes died away, he 
leaped from his bed, and hastily dressing himself, sallied 
forth. There were no carriages astir at that early hour, and 
taking out his little pocket map of the city, he traced upon 
it the nearest route to the Capitol, and following it, arrived 
there, notwithstanding one or two mistakes in the way, in 
time to see the splendor of the rising sun fall on the Coli- 
seum and all its surrounding ruins. 

What a glorious picture ! Arches, columns, the ruined 
walls of temples and palaces, and the Coliseum, all envel- 
oped in that enchanting veil of mist which in Italy softens 
the harshest outlines, and illuminated by the rosy radiance 
of the morning sun. The Coliseum, of course, he recog- 
nized at once ; but of the ruined edifices that surrounded it 
he knew nothing further than that they were nearly all that was 
left of ancient Rome, nor did he wish to know more at that 


ALFORD AND MRS. AND MISS WESTON. 91 

moment. He sat on the grand stairway that leads down 
from the Capitoline Hill to the Forum, and gazed upon the 
scene until the softer tints of early morning disappeared, 
when he retraced his steps through the narrow, dirty streets 
of the modern city, having no desire to destroy the impres- 
sion made upon his mind by examining in detail the differ- 
ent objects which made up the grand picture he had just be- 
held. 

Alford had made an agreement to meet his friend at the 
Cafe Nuovo, on the Corso, at nine o’clock, and as he had 
considerable time to spare before that hour would arrive, he 
employed it in wandering about, finding something of in- 
terest at every turn. Every traveller who has been to Rome 
knows how true this is. There is not a little church 
“ round the corner” that has not something interesting 
about it. 

Exhilarated by his walk, and with a consequent good ap- 
petite, he entered the Cafe Nuovo. 

” What have you been doing with yourself all the morn- 
ing ?” asked Towling ; ” for you surely haven’t slept until 
this hour the second day of your experience in Rome.” 

‘‘No indeed,” replied Alford. ‘‘ I was up at daybreak, 
and went to see the ruins of ancient Rome by sunrise. It 
was a glorious sight — well worth crossing the Atlantic to 
see.” 

‘‘You may well say so ; and had I known you contem- 
plated such a morning’s entertainment I would have gone 
with you.” 

‘‘ The fact is, I never thought of going there until I was 
awakened by the morning bugles, and then, as I felt no de- 
sire to sleep longer, it occurred to me as a pleasant way of 
spending the early morning hours. And to tell the truth — 
without intending any offence to you — I preferred to be 
alone.” 

‘‘ I can appreciate your sentiments,” said Towling, ‘‘ and 
feel no offence whatever on that score. But what do you 
think of it all ? I suppose you went over the ruins after the 
usual manner of the modern tourist ?” 

‘‘No, I did not,” replied Alford. ” I didn’t care to de- 
stroy the impression made upon my mind by the grand 
whole, as I saw it illuminated by the rising sun, by examin- 
ing into the details of the picture, so I left that for another 
time.” 

” Bravo, Alfredus !” exclaimed Towling ; ” you have the 
true artist’s spirit. But come, let us eat our breakfast, and 
then we will go to the Minerva for your luggage ; il Mexi- 


92 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


cano has already moved out of the rooms, and you can 
establish yourself in them as soon as you please.” 

When Alford had taken possession of his rooms, the 
dreariness of their aspect oppressed him, there being none 
of the concomitants of art to relieve the blankness of the 
gray tinted walls ; but his friend assured him he would soon 
remedy that defect if he was industrious, and in a few 
months find himself encumbered with more ” lumber” of 
that sort than he would know what to do with. 

. A week spent in visiting picture-galleries and other places 
of interest, and Alford began to think of presenting his let- 
ter of introduction to Mrs. Weston. Towling had fre- 
quently bantered him about his' dilatoriness ; but, like most 
young men little accustomed to ladies’ society, an uncon- 
querable timidity had kept him from doing that which he 
really longed to do. The impression which Miss Weston 
had made upon him was strange to him. He had never in 
his wildest dreams as an artist conceived a being so surpass- 
ingly beautiful. He had read of love — of love at first sight ; 
but the idea of his being in love with this majestic and 
lovely woman seemed too preposterous to occupy his 
thoughts for a moment. It was not love — of that he as- 
sured himself whenever he thought of her — and she was sel- 
dom absent from his thoughts. It was not love : what was 
it then ? Art worship : the homage which every artist ren- 
ders to the beautiful. It seemed as difficult for him to ap- 
proach this being — whom he did not love, but whom he 
worshipped — as it would have been for him to approach a 
royal princess. 

” Come, Alfredus, ” said Towling one day, ” it is about 
time you were presenting that precious document you have 
in your possession ; it will grow yellow with age if you keep 
it much longer, and the lady will wonder if you have been 
on a voyage around the world with it in your pocket. ’ ’ 

”I was just thinking so myself,” said Alford; ” but, 
strange as it may seem to you, I cannot overcome a certain 
timidity, bashfulness, or whatever it is that has taken pos- 
session of me ; and I know I shall appear awkward when I 
most desire to seem at my ease. ’ ’ 

” Pooh, pooh, man ! what is the matter with you ? Are you 
afraid of a woman — or are you in love with her ?’ ’ 

” If I am either, I suppose I must be afraid of her ; for I 
would not be so presumptuous as to consider myself in love 
with her.” 

” And why not, pray? Why shouldn’t you be in love 
with her ? I am, and I’m not ashamed to own it.” 


ALFORD AND MRS. AND MISS IVESTON 


93 


“ You wouldn't own it to her." 

" Ah ! that’s another thing. But what is there so formid- 
able about this particular young lady to make a coward 
of you ? Is it that she is so much more beautiful than any 
that you have ever seen before ? I can tell you, I have seen 
some ugly women who were a devilish sight more formida- 
ble than their pretty sisters." 

" I dare say," said Alford, " and I suppose I’m a fool, 
that’s all. At any rate I shall call on Mrs. Weston to-mor- 
row, and if I make an ass of myself, I can’t help it." 

" Bravo !" said Towling. " I have no fear of your mak- 
ing an ass of yourself. If all that I have heard be true, you 
will find Miss Weston as amiable as she is beautiful, and she 
will set you at your ease in less than five minutes." 

The next morning Alford presented himself at Mrs. Wes- 
ton’s apartments on the Via Babuino, and having been 
ushered into the sitting-room, sent in his introductory letter, 
accompanied by his card. In a few minutes Mrs. Weston 
made her appearance. She was a lady past middle age, 
gotten up to look as much younger as possible. Her man- 
ners were those of a well-bred woman, and would have been 
pleasant, but that she evidently thought affectation one of 
the concomitants of youth, and cultivated it. 

" I am happy to see you, Mr. Alford," she said ; and the 
young man arose and bowed, his eyes wandering to the door 
through which she had entered, while he expressed, in rather 
a confused way, his pleasure at making her acquaintance. 

" I suppose you have just arrived in Rome?" continued 
the lady, inviting him to be seated again. 

" I have been here more than a week," he replied ; " but 
have been prevented from calling before." 

" Ah yes !" she said ; I can well understand that. You 
are an artist, Mr. Hapton informs me, and of course you have 
been in a ma?.e since you got here — I can well imagine it. 
Oh, how I wish sometimes that I were an artist ! What a 
privilege it is to be able to appreciate all the beautiful things 
by which we are surrounded here — ah !" and she sighed in a 
most affecting manner. " But how was my dear old friend 
when you left him ?" she continued. " He is such a dear, 
good old man !" 

" He was in excellent health," replied the young man. 

" Oh, I am so glad to hear it ! And you are quite like a 
son to him, I presume, from what he says of you in his let- 
ter. He is a very rich man, Mr. Alford, and hasn’t a rela- 
tion in the world — at least not a near relation. You are 
most fortunate in having secured his affection." 


94 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ I am certainly most fortunate in having secured so good 
a friend/' 

“ You may find him more than a friend," said the lady — 
“ if you are wise," she added, with an arch look that might 
have become a girl of fifteen. 

As the conversation was taking a turn that the young 
man did not like, he was very glad that Miss Weston 
entered the room at that moment. There was a slight ex- 
pression of recognition in the first glance which the young 
lady cast upon the visitor, and he felt his face begin to glow 
under her gaze ; but the look passed away immediately, and 
when the elder lady introduced him as the young gentleman 
whom their dear old friend, Mr. Hapton, had recommended 
to their acquaintance, she treated him with such admirable 
grace and affability, that he very soon felt perfectly at ease. 

" Did you read Mr. Hapton’ s letter, Elenor ?" asked the 
mother. 

" Yes, mamma, I read it ; and I must make that my ex- 
cuse to Mr. Alford for not having made my appearance 
sooner." 

" No excuses are due to me. Miss Weston," said Alford, 
wondering at the rapidity with which his timidity had van- 
ished under the genial influence of her presence : “an apol- 
ogy is rather due from me for my neglect in not having pre- 
sented the letter immediately upon my arrival in Rome." 

“We can very well pardon the seeming neglect, Mr. 
Alford," said Elenor Weston. “I’m sure if 1 were an art- 
ist just arrived in Rome, the people of the past would re- 
ceive my first attention." 

“ Ah, yes !" said Mrs. Weston ; “ the past is so much 
more interesting than the present ; don’t you find it so, Mr. 
Alford ? — now, I’m sure you do." 

“Each has its claims on us, I think," replied Alford ; 
“ but as the past is present to me now for the first time, of 
course it claims a more than common interest." 

“ I suppose you have seen all there is to see," said the 
elder lady. 

“ O mamma !" exclaimed Elenor, “how is it possible? 
We have been here now nearly three years, and yet hardly 
a day passes that I do not find something old that is new to 
me." 

“ My dear Elenor,^’ said her mother, you are such an 
enthusiast. You surely ought to be a poet — or painter — or 
something." 

“ I wish I had the genius for either," replied the young 
lady ; " but I am glad I have the feeling to appreciate the 


ALFORD AND MRS. AND MISS WESTON. 


95 


works of others, though I have not the soul of the poet or 
the artist.” 

” Perhaps you are one of the ‘ voiceless,' of whom Oliver 
Wendell Holmes speaks so feelingly in his beautiful poem 
A^ith that title,” suggested Alford. 

” Perhaps so,” said Elenor, turning her magnificent gray 
eyes upon him. ” 1 fancy there is a large number belong- 
ing to that class.” 

” Without a doubt,” responded the young man ; ” and I 
don’t know but that they are to be more envied than the 
poets and artists themselves.” 

” Why ?” asked Elenor. 

At that moment the servant announced a visitor, Mr. 
Tulip, and before Alford could answer the question, a short, 
stout, rubicund gentleman, with a purple nose, came in. 
Like Mrs. Weston, he was past middle age, and gotten up 
to look as young as possible. He was dressed with scrupu- 
lous care ; his hair and mustache well dyed, the latter 
waxed at the ends ; but around his rather protruding eyes, 
the lids of which had a puffed look, there were wrinkles that 
no art could hide. These evidences of a purely animal man 
did not escape Alford’s observation, when he was intro- 
duced to the new-comer, who acknowledged the introduc- 
tion with a scarcely perceptible nod and a contemptuous 
stare. Like all inexperienced young men, unaccustomed to 
the various breeds of puppies that infest society, Alford did 
not understand such treatment, and he felt his wrath arise 
within him ; but as the circumstances were such that he felt 
it would be the height of folly to display his feelings, he re- 
sugied his seat and his conversation with Miss Weston, 
while Mr. Tulip and the mother withdrew to the other side 
of the room and entered into an animated discussion about 
nothing. 

” You asked me,” he said, ” why I consider the ‘ voice- 
less ’ more to be envied than the poet and the painter. The 
poet who wrote about them depicted them as a sad and 
melancholy race ; but I think he made a mistake in that, 
for they are really the happiest of human beings.” 

” How so ?” 

” They have the unspeakable delight of enjoying all that 
is true and beautiful without the fears and tears which too 
often fall to the lot of their more ambitious brethren.” 

” In other words, you think they have good cause to be 
content to live and ‘ die with all their music in them.’ ” 

” Yes ; better that than to give voice to their music only 
to have it misunderstood. I can imagine no existence more 


96 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


pleasurable than that of the poetic being who never attempts 
to put his feelings into words, but whose heart sings in 
unison with all the harmonies of nature.’' 

“ Elenor,” said Mrs. Weston, calling to her daughter 
across the room, “ are you sure Mr. Dimplechin told you 
he would come ?” 

“Yes, mamma, quite so,” replied Elenor ; “ but it lacks 
fully a quarter of an hour to the time yet.” 

“You have an appointment of some kind this morning ?” 
said Alford when she turned to him again. 

“ Yes,” she replied ; “we are going to visit some recent 
excavation on the Appian Way. But you need not let that 
disturb you : it will be some time before we start ; and in- 
deed we would be glad to have you join us if you will.” 

“ I am truly sorry that I cannot avail myself of your invi- 
tation,” said Alford. “ Most unfortunately for myself, I 
promised a friend that I would join him in a visit to the 
Villa Borghese this afternoon.” 

“ Of course you must keep your appointment,” said the 
young lady ; “ but I sincerely regret that it should have 
happened so, for I am sure you would appreciate what we 
are going to see ; and I know none of my companions will 
care for any thing but the drive.” 

Here Mr. Dimplechin made his appearance. 

“ Ah, Mr. Dimplechin !” said Mrs. Weston, “ I fear you 
are the chevalier faintant. I was just asking Elenor if she 
was sure you were coming.” 

“ ’Pon my soul, Mrs. Weston,” replied the gentleman, 
“ I had no idea it was so late. I am truly sorry, and 
ashamed of myself if I have kept you waiting.” ^ 

“You are in plenty of time, Mr. Dimplechin,” said Miss 
Weston, “ but mamma is always a little impatient when she 
is going anywhere. Permit me to make you acquainted 
with Mr. Alford, Mr. Dimplechin. Mr. Alford is an artist 
recently arrived in Rome.” 

Mr. Dimplechin was a very young man who had a very 
rich father. That admirable parent had begun life as a 
poor journeyman tailor, but by sticking to three good rules 
— economy, industry, and integrity — had accumulated a 
handsome fortune, for which — />., the fortune — the son 
took great credit to himself. He was a fair-haired, white- 
eyed youth, with a scarcely perceptible mustache, which 
his fingers seemed to be always searching for, as though he 
had some vague fear of being robbed of it. What there was 
of it was well waxed at the ends, and twisted upward, giv- 
ing him a very peculiar appearance — like a man with two 


ALFORD AND MRS. AND MISS WESTON 97 


fish-hooks stuck in his upper lip. He wore an eyeglass, 
which he clapped to one of his white eyes, while he sur- 
veyed his new acquaintance from Head to foot. 

“Aw,'' he said, “ just come across the big pond, eh? 
How d'ye do?'' 

Alford scarcely knew how to answer this greeting, except 
by pulling the gentleman's nose ; but as that was not to be 
thought of at such a time, he simply bowed, and turning to 
Miss Weston, told her that he would not detain them longer 
from their expedition. Both ladies cordially invited him to 
call again, which he promised to do, and took his departure, 
wondering how a woman like Elenor Weston could put up 
with the companionship of such men as Tulip and Dimplechin. 

“ Well, my Alfredus,'' said Towling, as the two young 
men loitered through the sylvan alleys of the Villa Borghese, 
“what about your visit this morning? I have been anx- 
iously waiting to hear about it, but you haven't had a word 
to say on the subject. Didn't you find the young lady as 
agreeable as she is beautiful ?’ ' 

“ The first part of my visit was pleasant enough,'' replied 
Alford ; “ and you were perfectly right, Tom — there was 
something in Miss Weston’s manner, even her reception of 
me, a new acquaintance, which set me at my ease at once." 

“ So — well, I’m glad to hear it. But what rendered the 
last part of your visit less pleasant than the first ? Was there 
some contretemps ? were you guilty of some blunder that 
knocked the pins from under you, after all ?'' 

“ No, nothing of that sort, I assure you ; but it is a mat- 
ter of wonder to me that I did keep cool and behave myself 
like a gentleman under the circumstances.” 

“ Ah ! so you did keep cool ; but what in the dickens 
was there to make you hot, old fellow ? You haven’t told me 
that yet. ” 

Alford then told his friend of the impertinent manner in 
which Tulip and Dimplechin had treated him when he was 
introduced to them, and expressed a hope that he would 
meet them under more propitious circumstances in order 
that he might have the pleasure of rapping their heads to- 
gether. 

“ Pshaw !” said Towling, “ such fellows as those are not 
worth a second thought, my friend. They are a breed of 
animal as common — and not nearly as worthy of considera- 
tion — as the jackasses you meet in the streets of Rome. I 
am glad you kept cool, as you say you did ; you will soon 
find you are a perfect refrigerator as far as such chaps as 
they are concerned. 


98 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** Why, do you meet many such 

“ Meet ’em ! my dear sir, you run foul of them at every 
turn. What they come here for Heaven only knows. I can 
imagine Paris having attractions for such fellows ; but 
Rome ! — good heavens ! what do they want in Rome ? But 
for that matter, a friend of mine, an accomplished traveller, 
told me he met one of the species once at Jerusalem. The 
fellow was clean out of his reckoning, it is true, and asked 
my friend what people came there for ; and he^ without 
thinking at the time how near he was to the very truth, told 
him they came to look for the place where the sun rose. ’ ’ 

“ What puzzles me,” said Alford, ” is how a woman like 
Miss Weston can endure the society of such men.” 

” How can she help herself?” said the other. “They 
are introduced into society as gentlemen — which their treat- 
ment of you in the presence of the ladies in whose house 
they met you proves they are not — and without rudeness 
such as Miss Weston would never be guilty of, they are not 
to be gotten rid of. But come, let us dismiss them ; they 
are not worthy of a moment’s consideration, and you will 
find out before long that the fair lady values them at just 
what they are worth. We will go now and take a look at 
Canova’s statue of Pauline Buonaparte.” 

“ I suppose she sat to the sculptor for it,” said Alford, as 
he gazed at the naked likeness of Napoleon’s sister, which 
did not strike him as any thing very remarkable. 

“ Of course ; and when a friend asked her how she could 
do such a thing, her reply was, ‘ Oh ! it was not cold ; the 
artist had a fire in the room.’ This is still considered a 
remarkably witty speech. So much for being the sister of 
an emperor and the wife of a prince — very small coin passes 
for metal of great value with the great army of snobs and 
toadies.” 

“ I think the friend’s ideas of modesty far rnore worthy 
of admiration than her conception of wit,” said Alford. 

“ She was a brazen jade, I take it,” said Towling. 
” But I’ve had quite enough of her ; let us go. Bon jour^ 
madame : the fair skin of the princess can scarcely hide the 
moral leprosy of the woman, and I wouldn’t give the crown 
of modesty of a pure-hearted republican girl for the regal 
diadem of an empress, where it covers spiritual rottenness.” 


OLIVER'S PROGRESS, 


99 


CHAPTER IX. 

Oliver's progress. 

When James Alford was gone, of course there was not 
one of David Maxwell’s household but missed him — the 
handsome, genial young man, whose pleasant ways had won 
all their hearts — but most of all, Oliver, who had been his 
companion in all his excursions, felt the loss. For several 
days he found it impossible to apply himself to the studies 
to which it was necessary that he should now return, and 
Mr. Dinning was obliged to censure him for his delin- 
quency. 

“ I cannot help it, sir,” said the boy, ” my mind has been 
completely upset ; but I will endeavor to do what I know is 
right, and satisfy you, if you will have a little patience with 
me.” 

” Very well, my boy,” said the good old man, ” I will 
have patience. I do not often have cause to find fault with 
you, and I understand the reason now. You have been in 
a sort of dream of late ; but you must make an effort to 
banish your dreams now, and come back to sober reality. 
I do not tell you to lay aside this new pleasure which you 
have found ; but don’t let it interfere with your daily duties. 
You have hours for recreation : let these suffice you for the 
cultivation of the delightful accomplishment you have so 
recently discovered to suit your taste.” 

” O sir,” replied Oliver, ” I don’t want to learn it just 
as an accomplishment — I wish to study it as a profession, 
like Mr. Alford.” 

” Well, well,” said the schoolmaster, ” I comprehend, 
and don’t blame you — for indeed it must be a beautiful life. 
By and by I will have a talk on the subject with my old 
friend Davy ; but in the mean time we must not neglect your 
proper education in other matters, or you will regret it here- 
after. ’ ’ 

After this conversation, Oliver set to work earnestly to 
bring his wandering mind into proper subjection to his will, 
and so far succeeded that he was soon able to go through 
the daily routine of lessons as of old ; though now and then 
wayward fancy would break in, and for a little while play 
havoc with the disciplined troops of thought. Such time, 
however, as had heretofore been given to ball, marbles, and 
other boyish sports was now employed in drawing such ob- 


100 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


jects as nature afforded in the immediate neighborhood of 
the school-house, and every Saturday, which day is a holi- 
day to all American school-boys, he was off as soon as he 
had had his breakfast, never returning until nightfall, when 
he proudly displayed his day's work to his sister, who was 
always enthusiastic in her admiration of her brother's prog- 
ress. 

Shortly after Alford’s departure, a package had arrived at 
the farm-house from Baltimore, accompanied by a letter from 
the artist. The package contained two books — a copy of 
Tennyson's poems for Sylvia, and a little treatise on art for 
the use of beginners for Oliver. The boy studied the work 
carefully — always taking it with him on his Saturday expedi- 
tions — and he was soon astonished at the new meaning 
which every little object in nature possessed for him. The 
brook, the rocks, the trees, and even the little wayside 
weeds and flowers, which he had been accustomed to as 
long as he could remember, and which his natural instinct 
for the beautiful had always taught him to admire and love, 
were like new songs to him — or rather, like old songs set to 
new and more harmonious music. As he continued to 
pursue his researches into the wonderful beauties of nature, 
he felt his soul expand, as it were, within him. His spirit 
was like a ship that has been bound with fetters of ice 
through the long arctic winter ; and now the genial light 
and warmth had come — the ice was breaking up, and soon 
it would be able to spread its wings and fly whithersoever it 
listed. 

Now and then Sylvia accompanied her brother in his 
sketching excursions ; and then it delighted him to explain 
to her the principles by which he worked in drawing any 
object, and how he had overcome what had appeared to him 
insurmountable difficulties, by following certain rules laid 
down in his text-book. 

“ It seems strange," said he, " how certain laws — not un- 
like those in geometry — can be applied to work with which 
the fancy has so much to do ; but it seems even the fancy 
has to be broken to harness, like every thing else." 

" And how soon do you expect to get your fancy broken 
to harness, Ollie ?" asked Sylvia, laughing. 

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Oliver; "I find it 
quite hard to put even the bridle on the colt sometimes." 

"You ought always to keep the bridle on him, then, and 
he will get used to it.'’ 

" That’s not so easy," he said, looking at her with a 
bright smile ; "he shakes it off. 


OLIVER^S PROGRESS. 


lor 


“ Oh !** said the girl, putting on a look of serious con- 
cern ; “he must be an unruly fellow. “ 

“ Indeed he is,” replied Oliver. “ Now, do you know, I 
have been looking into part the second of the book Mr. 
Alford sent me, which treats of painting, and my mind has 
been full of the most dazzling visions of color for the past 
few days. Oh ! if I only had some paints I know I could 
make a picture of that little pool of water, with the old tree 
hanging over it, and the rocks covered with lichen and 
moss. Wouldn't it be beautiful ?” 

“ I’m sure it would,” said Sylvia. “ But as you have no 
paints, you had better make a drawing of it.” 

“ Ah ! but it will not be the same,” said Oliver, with a 
sigh. “ Look at all the lovely tints in the rocks and the 
water : how can one overlook all those and keep the eyes 
fixed only on the lights and shadows ?” 

“ I see that colt of yours is running away with you, 
Ollie,” cried Sylvia, laughing merrily ; “ you had better 
hold him in and dismount before he does you some 
harm.” 

Oliver tried to follow his sister’s advice, and succeeded 
so far as to make a very faithful drawing of the little scene, 
which she claimed ought rightly to belong to her, and he 
did not dispute her claim. 

“What would a set of colors and things cost, Ollie?” 
asked Sylvia as they walked homeward. 

“ My book tells that too,” said her brother, taking 
the volume out of the satchel in which he carried his draw- 
ing-book and pencils. “ Let me see — here it is.” He 
looked over the items and made a rapid calculation in his 
mind. “ I should think,” he continued, “ that fifteen dol- 
lars would buy all I need : paints — I’m speaking of oils, of 
course, for I don’t care to paint in water-colors — paints, 
brushes, palette, easel, and enough canvas to last me some 
time. I can make the stretchers for the canvas myself — and 
I might make the easel ; but I would much rather have one 
made by a person who understands it — it would be so much 
nicer. But what am I thinking of ? I am talking as though 
I had a fortune to lay out. Where in the world would I get 
fifteen dollars, or even five, to spend in that way ? Were 
you thinking of* asking uncle David to buy them forme, 
Sylvy ?” 

“ No, indeed,” said Sylvy : “ uncle David would think I 
had gone mad if I were to ask him to lay out so much 
money in what he would consider nonsense.” 

“ I suppose he would,” said the boy, with a sigh. 


102 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


** Well, I shouldn’t blame him if he did ; he don’t under- 
stand these things.” 

From that time forward there seemed to be some mysteri- 
ous negotiations progressing between Sylvia and Elsie 
Brown. There were frequent whispering conferences be- 
tween the two, which were immediately broken off on the 
appearance of any other member of the family. Elsie made 
almost daily trips to the village with a covered basket on 
her arm, and when she returned, always went to Sylvia’s 
room. The old lady, Mrs. Maxwell, seemed to know some- 
thing about it ; but she kept her knowledge, whatever it 
was, to herself. And so it continued for about a month — 
David Maxwell, occupied with the cares of his farm, igno- 
rant that any thing unusual was going on, and Oliver, though 
full of curiosity — for he soon perceived that there was some 
secret combination between his sister and the maid-of-all 
work — unable to discover what it was. 

Sylvia, by some means unknown to her brother, got hold 
of a Baltimore newspaper, in which she seemed for a little 
while very much interested ; and when she threw it aside 
her brother picked it up to see what there could be in it to 
interest her. There was what purported to be a newly dis- 
covered poem by Edgar Allan Poe, published on the literary 
page, and he concluded that that was what she had been in- 
terested in, so he asked her how she liked it. She had not 
read it, but did so immediately, and said she thought it 
was beautiful. 

Some time after she had read the Baltimore newspaper, 
Sylvia wrote a letter ; but Oliver knew nothing about that. 
She did not seal it or address it, but putting it into her 
pocket, went to the village post-office, and after some nego- 
tiations with the postmaster, left it, sealed and addressed. 
After some days’ delay an answer came to the letter ; but 
nobody knew any thing about that either, except Elsie, who 
brought it to her. A- few days later — it being Saturday, and 
Oliver being already gone on his usual tramp — Sylvia asked 
uncle David if she might have a horse and the spring wagon 
for a few hours. Uncle David looked at her with some sur- 
prise, and asked where she was going. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! I shall not be gone very long, ’ ’ she said, without 
answering his question. ” I will be back before dinner- 
time, and Elsie is going with me.” 

The old man did not seem to notice that his query had 
not been answered ; but gave his consent, and in a little 
while Sylvia and Elsie were off on their mysterious journey. 

From the time dinner was over until dusk, Sylvia — who 


OLIVER'S PROGRESS, 


103 

had been as good as her word and returned before dinner-time 
— was anxiously looking out for her brother, though she 
knew he seldom returned before twilight. The weather was 
getting quite cold now, however, and she thought that per- 
haps that might bring him home somewhat earlier, and so 
she fluttered between the sitting room, in which a bright fire 
was burning, and the front portico, where the wind was 
rather bleak and cold, until it became quite dark. It 
seemed as if he was later than usual on this day when she 
desired his presence so much, and she was getting impatient 
and weary with waiting, when at last she heard the front 
gate open, and his footsteps coming up the gravel walk. 
She hurried to the door to meet him. 

“O Ollie!’* she cried, ‘‘what makes you so late this 
evening V* 

“ I wandered a little farther than usual to-day,** he re- 
plied, kissing her tenderly, “ and I had no idea it was so 
late until I put up my work and started to return home. 
Were you alarmed about me V 

“ No, no,” she replied. ‘‘ I was not alarmed — I was not 
so foolish — but I was impatient for your return. I have 
got something to show you, and I have not been able to rest 
quietly all the afternoon, though I knew very well you 
wouldn’t be back till late.” 

‘‘ Something to show me, Sylvy ? what can it be ? But I 
might know it is something wonderful, since you have not 
asked to see my day’s work.” 

‘‘ Oh ! I can look at your drawings afterwards,” said the 
impatient girl. “You must not be jealous; but now I 
must let you into my secret at once : I can contain myself no 
longer.” 

‘‘ So it is a secret, is it ? Well, come along, my darling, 
I’m quite ready to be let into any number of secrets ; and 
the more mystery the better. Come, I’m getting as impa- 
tient as yourself ; let us go and look at this wonderful some- 
thing.” 

Sylvia took a candle out of the sitting room, and with 
many mysterious looks and smiles led her brother to the 
small chamber that had been occupied by Alford during his 
sojourn with them. Oliver looked at his sister with an 
eager inquiring gaze when they stopped at the door of the 
room. Was it possible that the young artist had returned. 
He half expected his friend to step forth and greet him. 
His sister, not noticing his agitation, quietly took the key 
from her pocket, and unlocking' the door, invited him, with 
mock solemnity, to enter. 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


104 

The bed had been removed from the room, and there 
were few articles of furniture in it ; but close to the window 
stood an easel, beside which, on a table, was an artist’s color 
box, open and displaying all its precious contents — bright, 
glistening tubes of paint and clean cedar-handled brushes — 
while a roll of canvas lay on the trough of the easel. 

Overcome with astonishment, the boy stood gazing at these 
treasures until his sister, who had put the candle down, and 
was hanging on his shoulder, took him by the chin, and 
turning his face around so that she could look in his happy 
eyes, asked if he had nothing to say to the kind fairy who 
had guided him to the spot where so many good things lay 
hid. With a quick impulse he threw his arms around her, 
and pressing her in a close embrace, covered her face with 
kisses. 

“ Stop, stop, sir !” she cried, freeing herself and holding 
him at arm’s length ; “is that the rough treatment you have 
for one who has done you such a service ?’’ 

“ O my sister ! my darling !’’ he said, “ who am I to 
thank for this moment of happiness ?’’ 

“ No one, of course, dear,’’ said Sylvia, laughing. 
“ These things came here of themselves — or were brought 
here by some good fairy — and nobody knew any thing about 
it until I came here and found them. I knew they were not 
for me ; but here they are, and I suppose you have the best 
right to them, as you alone can make use of them.’’ 

“ Come, Sylvy,’’ said Oliver, “ stop your joking and tell 
me all about it. Did uncle David buy them for me, after 
all ?’’ 

“ No, Oliver,’’ said Elsie Brown, who had silently crept 
into the room, and startled them both by thus unexpectedly 
proclaiming her presence, “ yer uncle Davy never did it — I 
thinks I sees him a spendin’ his money in that a way — but 
yer sister Sylvy did it, an’ nobody else.’’ 

“ Hush, Elsie,’’ said Sylvia ; “ you seem to forget your 
share in it altogether ; but I haven’t forgot it, and neither 
shall Oliver.’’ 

Oliver stood looking at the two in amazement, wonder- 
ing how they could have managed it. 

“ I ain’t furgot nothin’,’’ said Elsie. “ I knows I sold 
the eggs ; but they was your eggs, fur your hens laid of 
’em.’’ 

“ There ; you have the bottom of the secret now, Oliver,’’ 
said Sylvia, “ and if you want to thank anybody, go and pay 
your respects to the inhabitants of the poultry yard.’’ 

Oliver fully appreciated the delicacy of the sisterly love 


OLIVERS S PROGRESS AND PROSPECTS, 105 

that had put him in possession of those things for which he 
had so much longed ; and seizing Sylvia in his arms again, 
refused to let her go until she had promised to sit to him for 
her picture. Not satisfied with that, he turned to Elsie, and 
gave her a hearty hug and two sounding smacks. 

Go 'way, Ollie, ” said Miss Brown, pushing him off. 
“ Ef you must be a kissin', go an' kiss some young gal — 
thar’s a plenty on ’em in the country — an’ don’t be a 
wastin’ yer kisses on a ole critter like me.” 

Heretofore Oliver’s efforts had been confined to little bits 
of landscape — groups of rocks, with grass and moss grow- 
ing about them ; shady nooks in the woodlands, or pools of 
water, reflecting the bullrushes and water-lilies, drawn with 
the pencil ; but now that he had the necessary materials at 
his command, he determined to attempt something more 
ambitious — the human face — and certainly he could not 
have found a more lovely subject than his sister. 


CHAPTER X. 

Oliver’s progress and prospects. 

As the cold weather was setting in, and it would soon be 
impossible to indulge in his pleasant Saturday excursions, 
Oliver contemplated with delight these means through which 
he hoped to pass the cold, wet, winter days in congenial 
occupation. He felt that he could not be grateful enough 
to the sweet sister whose loving-kindness had found a way 
to provide those things for which he had so hopelessly 
longed. 

These two had loved each other always with an absorbing 
affection, which had never known abatement — a love of which 
they could not remember the beginning, and never dreamed 
of seeing the end. What interested one always interested 
the other, and even their most secret thoughts seemed to 
run in unison. Their souls seemed to be united by a mys- 
terious sympathy ; and it might well be, had they been, by 
some mischance, separated bodily, that their spirits, over- 
leaping space, would have remained in close communion, so 
that whatever of good or ill befell the one would affect the 
other. Such wonderful community of thought has been 
known to exist between children born of the same womb at 
the same time ; but Oliver and Sylvia had never had occa- 
sion to notice it in themselves, save in their dreams, which 


io6 AFTER MANY YEARS, 

they were surprised to find at times were identical. They 
had always loved each other dearly, expressing their love in 
the sweet, tender ways usual in cases of mutual affection ; 
but this was the first occasion in which either had had an 
opportunity to show the great love that filled their hearts, 
and Oliver felt it and longed for an opportunity to show 
his appreciation of it. 

With the assistance of a kindly-disposed carpenter in the 
village, the youthful artist succeeded in making some tolera- 
ble stretchers, and then he set to work with soul-absorbing 
earnestness. 

After spoiling several pieces of canvas, and becoming very 
much disheartened, he succeeded in making a picture that 
pleased him, although he scarcely knew the reason why. 
The fact is, that, like all beginners, in his first attempts he 
had always tried to place his sitter in an especially graceful 
and easy position ; and consequently his pictures, when fin- 
ished, looked particularly graceless and constrained. He 
had almost given up in despair, when one day he happened 
to catch Sylvia in a beautiful attitude, and, taking a lesson 
from nature, he produced a work the excellence of which 
sealed the fate of all that had preceded it, dooming them to 
the ordeal by fire, much to the sorrow of the original, who, 
seeing them not with the artist eye, thought them marvel- 
lous performances. 

Some time in December came a letter from Alford. 

“ Rome, December — , i8 — . 

“ My dear Oliver : Do not think from my long silence 
that I have forgotten the pleasant days I spent with you last 
summer : indeed they are often present with me in this land 
where every thing is so different. I have not lost my love 
for the fresh young beauty of our dear America, though here 
I am surrounded by the monuments of the dead past, bathed 
in the glory of a sunlight such as we know nothing of on our 
side of the Atlantic. I will not attempt to describe that 
wondrous luminous veil which overspreads nature in this 
fascinating land ; you must come here — or see one of 
Claude’s charming pictures — to know what it is. To a man 
like Claude Lorraine, to live in Italy must have been to have 
a foretaste of paradise. 

“ I need not tell you what a blissful state I have been in 
since I arrived in Rome. One knows not which way to 
turn when he first gets here — every thing is so full of inter- 
est ; even every-day life in this old land has many charms. 
But I hope that you will some day visit this home of the 


OLIVER'S PROGRESS AND PROSPECTS, 107 

poet and artist yourself, and then you will understand how 
impossible it is for me with words to give you any adequate 
idea of the beauties and delights by which I find myself sur- 
rounded. 

“ The suggestion that you may some day visit Italy has 
brought me to the principal object with which this letter 
was begun. 

I have thought of you much, my dear young friend, 
since I left you ; and as the result of my thoughts, I con- 
cluded to write to you on the subject of your future, in 
which it is hardly necessary that I should assure you I am 
greatly interested. 

“ I believe that God has given most men certain distinc- 
tive talents — to some ten, to others five, and yet to others 
but one, as He Himself so beautifully illustrated in a para- 
ble — which if cultivated earnestly and steadfastly, and not 
forced or perverted from their natural and proper course, 
will lead to noble ends. It is true that our noble art has 
been perverted by men of the highest standard of genius. 
The same men who have produced the most noble works 
have also painted pictures whose tendencies are any thing 
but moral. We see this wherever we go in Italy ; and this 
is what led D’Aubigne to say that poetry and music were of 
heaven, implying at the same time that the two sister arts 
painting and sculpture were of the ‘earth, earthy.’ He 
evidently forgot that poetry too has been perverted in the 
basest manner by men of transcendent genius. But we will 
not discuss that question now. Every one knows that talent 
of any kind may be abused by its possessor, and become the 
medium whereby moral poison is instilled into the minds of 
men, and the greater the talent, the more insidious and en- 
venomed that poison. 

“ I will come back now to what I had to say about you 
and your particular talent. Your .joad in life is, in my 
opinion, plainly laid out, and the chief thing to think about 
is how to start you fairly on that road. Your uncle, I fear, 
will seriously object to your entering upon a career which I 
think is the only one for you. I cannot blame him. He 
sees according to his lights ; and the making of pictures — of 
which he has seen but few, and those few the poorest speci- 
mens of their kind — appears to him a frivolous kind of busi- 
ness for any man to engage in. He has worked hard all his 
days simply to supply the needs of the material man ; and 
how should he understand that there can be a higher aim 
for which we may contend in this life — that our spiritual life 
may begin here, instead of waiting for that other Hfe to 


io8 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


which religion teaches him to look forward as the only hope 
of something better than he has known in this ? The ques- 
tion is how to overcome the peculiar prejudices of one who 
has been accustomed to consider hard manual labor — ‘ the 
sweat of his brow ’ — the only means by which man may earn 
honestly his daily bread. He does not understand that 
‘ the sweat of the brow * may have a double significance, 
and that the work of the brain, of which the brow is typical, 
may be of more importance to man than mere manual labor. 

“ I would like to hear that you are in Baltimore pursu- 
ing a regular course of study, for I feel satisfied that you 
have talent to attain distinction as an artist. I spoke to my 
good friend Mr. Hapton about you, and if you should suc- 
ceed in persuading your uncle to allow you to follow the bent 
of your genius, you must not fail to make yourself known to 
him. He is a man full of kindly sympathy for the young, 
and will be sure to interest himself in you, and put you in the 
way of beginning the good work without unnecessary delay. 

‘‘ My advice to you now is, that you enlist Mr. Dinning 
in your service. I learned to respect him very highly in the 
little while that I knew him, both for his goodness and his 
learning, and I am sure he will understand your aspirations, 
while his opinions certainly have great weight with your un- 
cle, who, like all men of his particular habits of life, feels 
the influence of superior intellect, though he may not always 
comprehend the reason why. 

I wish I had the time to describe some of the glorious 
works I have seen in order to stimulate you to act at once — 
though truly, knowing how enthusiastic you were when I 
left you, I can hardly believe that necessary. I am obliged to 
close my letter, however, and will do so hoping, when I re- 
ceive an answer to it, to learn that all obstacles are overcome, 
and your future career settled according to your desires. 

“ Present my respects to your uncle and aunt, your sis- 
ter, and Mr. Dinning — not forgetting Elsie Brown, who, you 
informed me before I left Baltimore, was so much troubled 
with regard to my ultimate fate. She need not grieve fur- 
ther on that score, for if hard study will keep a man lean, I 
do not intend that the wild ‘ Afrikins,’ if they ever catch 
me, shall find me a sweet morsel. 

‘‘ And now good-by, niy dear Oliver. I have tried to 
make my letter interesting ; and as it has been pretty much 
all about yourself and your affairs, perhaps it may prove so 
to you. In my next I will endeavor to give you some idea 
of how I live here and what I see. 

“ Yours truly, 


James Alford/* 


OLIVER'S PROGRESS AND PROSPECTS, 109 

‘‘What do you think about it, Sylvy?’' asked Oliver, 
when he had read the letter to his sister. “ Mr. Alford 
seems bent on my going to Baltimore to study to be a 
painter.” 

”0 Ollie,” said the girl, ‘‘it would be so nice if you 
could be an artist ; but I know uncle David would never 
consent to it — he has such queer ideas about painters : 
house painters, in his estimation, stand far above picture 
painters.” 

“Yes,” said her brother, “ I know that. He looks upon 
pictures in the same light as children’s toys — as of no 
earthly use except to amuse children. But I think I will 
show Mr. Alford’s letter to Mr. Dinning, and ask him to 
talk to uncle David — he promised once that he would.” 

“ That’s the only thing you can do, Ollie,” replied Syl- 
via, “ for uncle would only laugh at you if you were to speak 
to him yourself ; and if anybody can do any thing with him, 
it is our good old school-master.” 

Accordingly Oliver gave his precious letter to the school- 
master, who read it and^said he thought the writer was per- 
fectly right in believing that the boy would succeed as an 
artist, and promised to do all he could to convince David 
Maxwell of the advisability of allowing him “ to pursue that 
avocation.” 

One evening he dropped into tea at the Maxwells’, and, 
contrary to his usual custom, remained until Oliver and Syl- 
via had retired for the night, which they did somewhat 
earlier than was their habit ; for they suspected the errand 
the old man had come upon, and got out of the way as soon 
as possible. 

“Well, neighbor,” said Mr. Dinning, when the young 
people were gone, “ Christmas will soon be here again.” 

“ Yes,” replied the farmer, “ Christmas will soon be here 
again, and do you know I never can think of it except as 
the birthday of those two children.” 

“ I’m sure it is their birthday as far as we are concerned, 
Davy,” said Mrs. Maxwell. 

“Yes,” responded her husband, “ I suppose we may 
consider it so, though they must have been between four and 
five year old when they came to us.” 

“ If your calculation is correct, friend Davy,” said the 
school-master, “ they must be about seventeen years old 
now.” 

“ Just so,” responded Maxwell. “ They will soon be 
man and woman now, and no one has turned up yet to claim 
them ; but I suppose that woman must be dead, and maybe 


no 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


she was the only living soul that knew any thing about 
them/' 

“ Have you ever thought about their future, neighbor?" 
asked Dinning. 

‘‘Yes, I have," was the response. " Betsey and I have 
talked it over many a time ; but it has always been con- 
nected with the idea that somebody would come to look 
them up some day." 

‘‘ Well, let us lay aside that idea altogether, now, as there 
seems no probability of such a thing happening, and let us 
consider them simply as your own children ; or, if you will, 
your nephew and niece — having a nearer claim upon you 
than any one else." 

‘‘ And so they have, to be sure," said Mrs. Maxwell. 

" Yes," added the farmer, ‘‘ we have raised them as our 
own, and love them as much as if they really were. " 

‘‘I'm very sure you do," said the school-master ; " and 
viewing them in that light, you ought to begin to consider what 
is best to be done in order to secure their future happiness. ' ' 

‘‘ I'm sure I've done all I could so far," said Maxwell, 
looking earnestly in his visitor's face. " I'm not a man of 
learning, like you, Mr. Dinning, though my father gave me 
a good common education — the best he could afford — and it 
has served my turn very well ; but I turned t/ie?n over to 
you, neighbor, knowing you would do all you could for 
them in that way, and wishing that they should know more 
than I had ever had the chance of learning. I believe you 
have done your duty by them, and I have never grudged the 
money spent." 

‘‘ Yes, yes. I'm certain of that — you never grudged a cent 
spent on them ; and as for me, I can assure you, I have 
done all I could ; in fact, I have done more than I should 
have felt bound to do under ordinary circumstances. I 
thought that these two might some day be called upon to fill 
higher positions in society than my other pupils, for, say 
what you will about democracy, equality, and all that, there 
is something in their appearance and manner that stamps 
them as belonging to a higher order of beings than their 
companions. But my principal object in broaching this 
subject to-night was to have a little talk with you about Oli- 
ver, for on him, after you are gone, will rest the responsibil- 
ity of his sister’s welfare." 

‘‘That is so," responded the other; "and I have 
thought of it. I suppose, from your bringing up the sub- 
ject, that you consider the boy's education as complete as 
you can make it." 


OL/VjEjR'S progress and prospects. 


Ill 


Well — no — not exactly that, for I could still go on with 
him for a year or two yet ; but it depends upon what occu- 
pation he is to follow whether it will be necessary.” 

“ What occupation ? Why, of course I expect to leave 
him and his sister the farm, and what other little property I 
have. I don’t suppose he will work the farm as I have — 
for you know I have done most of the work myself, only 
hiring help when I had more on my hands than I could at- 
tend to myself. Perhaps he may do better with it than 1 
have^ perhaps not. There are a great many new-fangled 
ideas about farming now ; but I have never been able to get 
out of the old way, whether it be the right way or not.” 

“There’s just it, my friend,” said the school-master: 
“ have you ever considered whether the boy is fitted for a 
farmer, either in the old way or the new way ?” 

“ No,” replied Maxwell, “ I must confess, I have never 
thought of it one way or another. I have always been ac- 
customed to think that he would succeed me here, and that 
he could do no better than to go on as I have done — im- 
proving things if he could, of course. I have always man- 
aged to be comfortable and happy, and what more can a 
man want in this life ?” 

“Most men, I know, are satisfied to be comfortable,” 
said Mr. Dinning, “ and being comfortable, are happy ; but 
there are many to whom mere comfort brings no happi- 
ness.” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked David. 

“ Simply this : that there are people who, if they had all 
the comforts wealth can bring, would never be happy if de- 
prived of the occupation best suited to their tastes and sym- 
pathies. Now Oliver, I am satisfied, has no taste for farm- 
ing, and would never succeed in it — his inclinations lie alto- 
gether in another direction.” 

David Maxwell sat looking at the school-master, but never 
said a word : it had always been a hobby of his that Oliver 
was to work the farm when he was gone ; but his wife, who 
had been sitting quietly knitting in the chimney-corner, 
looked up and smiled. 

‘ ‘ I have always told Davy that, * ’ she said. * * Ollie never 
was made for a farmer, I’m sure of that'' 

“ Tut, tut !” said the old man, “ men are made for what 
falls to their lot. ’ ’ 

“ No, no, my good friend, I cannot admit that proposi- 
tion — at least not as you mean it,” said Mr. Dinning. 
“ If all men had accepted the lots which seemed to fall to 
them, mankind would still be in a state of semi-barbarism. 


II2 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Men of genius, rising above the circumstances which sur- 
rounded them, have brought us, with help of God, to our 
present state of civilization.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” said the farmer; “but what 
has that got to do with Oliver ?” 

“ Every thing, every thing, my friend. I have just told 
you — and your good wife agrees with me — that the boy is 
not fitted for a farmer ; now the question remains to be set- 
tled as to what he is fitted for.” 

“Well, I’m sure I can tell you nothing about that. 
Maybe he’d like to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or else a par- 
son ; he has always been a good boy, and we have tried to 
raise him and his sister with proper ideas about religion.” 

“ Has he ever shown any predilection for either of these 
professions ?’ ’ asked the school-master, with a grim smile. 

“ How should he ?” said the farmer ; “ the boy is still at 
school, and has seen nothing of the world ; and how should 
he know any thing about such matters ?” 

“ So that’s all you know about it, eh?” said the other. 
“ Well, I can tell you he has shown a predilection, and that 
in a most surprising manner.” 

“ What is it ?” asked Maxwell. “ Of course you should 
know more about the boy’s likes and dislikes than I, for you 
have had the teaching of him.” 

Mrs. Maxwell looked up from her knitting again, and a 
pleasant smile lit up her comely face. Her womanly intui- 
tion told her at what the school-master was driving, and she 
determined to support him with all her might ; for Oliver’s 
genius — though she knew not what genius was — had filled 
her with motherly delight and vanity. 

“ Is it possible that you can ask me that question ?” said 
Dinning. “Are you blind, neighbor? Why, the boy was 
born to be an artist, and nothing else.” 

With a sudden impatient jerk, the old man looked up 
from the fire, into which he had been peering musingly. 
“ What !” he said, “ a painter. Why, I can’t imagine any 
man with good muscles and sinews taking to the business of 
picture-making from choice. It might do well enough for a 
cripple or some poor body who is too weakly and sickly to 
do any thing else ; but for a strong, hearty man to sit down 
and spend his life in that way seems to me a waste of the 
strength and health God has blessed him with.” 

“ Surely, Davy,” said his wife, “ you wouldn’t object to 
Oliver being such a young man as Mr. Alford.” 

“ No — I don’t say I would,” replied Maxwell dubiously 
— “ that is, leaving out the picture-making ; and, to tell the 


OLIVERS S PROGRESS AND PROSPECTS. 


113 


truth, I don’t object to that as an amusement : but to make 
it the business of one’s life ! — that seems ridiculous to me.” 

” And how about the gentleman who took him from the 
country just to make a painter of him ?” 

” Oh ! well, he may be a very fine man — a good man, and 
all that ; but I thought at the time Mr. Alford was telling us 
about it, though I said nothing, that he might have done 
something better for the young man.” 

” l^ook here, neighbor,” put in Mr. Dinning ; you talk 
about muscles and sinews. Don’t you know there is some- 
thing better than muscles and sinews ? Where would the 
world be now if men had nothing but muscles and sinews to 
depend upon ?” 

‘ ‘ 1 know, ’ ’ responded the other, that brains are of more 
importance than muscles and sinews — I was a little hasty 
when I spoke just now — I did not mean exactly what my 
words would seem to imply ; but I can’t explain myself ; 
you probably understand what I mean. A man can’t work 
a farm without brains, and if muscles and sinews were the 
chief things necessary, my horse and my ox would be better 
than I ; but I think a man can put his brains as well as his 
muscles and sinews to better use than making pictures. 
What can a man ever do at that, except amuse children ?” 

The school-master was silent for a few minutes, and then 
he said, ” Listen to me, neighbor — for this is a momentous 
question to the youth in whom we are both very much inter- 
ested. You have formed altogether erroneous opinions with 
regard to this art of painting, which you think is mere 
child’s play, unworthy of serious consideration. I can un- 
derstand that. You have seen little of the world, and I 
know there are men who have seen a great deal of it who 
have the same idea. I have seen little more of the world 
than you have ; but I have read much, and through the 
medium of books I have gained some knowledge on the sub- 
ject ; and I assure you there are few men who occupy more 
enviable positions than the artist who has attained eminence 
in his profession. I will say nothing of the influence which 
great works in this art has had upon mankind in general ; 
but I will tell you that artists have risen to so much consid- 
eration as to be thought fit companions for kings and emper- 
ors. Little as you may be inclined to believe it,’isir, there 
have lived men who have devoted their lives to this beauti- 
ful art, which you think so slightingly of, whose success has 
added lustre to the lands which gave them birth. To such 
men you and I are but poor crawling creatures on the face 
of the earth. ’ ’ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


I14 

The old scholar finished his argument with a heavy sigh. 
He too had had his youthful aspirations ; but want of en- 
couragement, combined with the demands of that inexorable 
taskmaster, poverty, had kept him down in the world, and 
made him what he was — a village school-master. 

The farmer had sat with his eyes fixed moodily on the fire 
while his guest was thus enlightening him ; and his wife, 
who had ceased her knitting, had kept her eyes steadily 
upon him. 

“ This seems strange to me,** he said at last, as if rousing 
himself from an unusual train of thought, “ strange indeed ; 
and if I did not know you to be a truthful man, Mr. Din- 
ning, I would never believe it. But I know you to be a 
man who never speaks aught else but the truth and that 
you are one of great learning, and 1 can but believe you.” 

” Of course you must believe him, Davy,” said Mrs. 
Maxwell. ” Neighbor Dinning, whom we have known all 
our lives, and whom we have always known to be upright 
and just — and who knows so much — of course you must be- 
lieve him.’* 

Just so,” said her husband ; ” that’s just what I was 
saying. I believe all that Mr. Dinning has told us — though 
it seems curious to me — and all I have to say is, if it must 
be so, it must. The teacher ought to know what the pupil 
is fit for ; and if neighbor Dinning thinks it best, and the 
boy really wants to be a painter — he has never said any thing 
to me about it, and I have never thought of the matter — I 
will do all I can for him.” 

And so it was settled. It is unnecessary to state that Oli- 
ver was delighted, and when he took his departure for Balti- 
more soon after the new year, the grief natural to youth 
when separated for the first time from those whom he loved 
so dearly, was somewhat assuaged by the prospect — which 
seemed so brilliant — before him. 


CHAPTER XI. 

JAMES ALFORD FINDS A LIVING WOMAN MORE ATTRACTIVE 
THAN DEAD GODS AND GODDESSES. 

James Alford found, when he got well settled to his 
work, that he had little time to spare for play ; but about a 
week after his first visit to the Westons he called again. 
They were not at home ; and leaving his card for them, he 


ALFORD FINDS A WOMAN ATTRACTIVE, 115 


turned away with a feeling of sore disappointment. He had 
set aside this especial day for this especial purpose, and had 
looked forward to it with the same feelings of delight with 
which a child would look forward to some promised pleas- 
ure ; and now he felt a good deal like the man who drew a 
blank in the lottery. He might have chosen any other day 
— and so might the unhappy speculator in lottery tickets 
have chosen any other number. Ah ! if we only possessed 
the power of divination ! if we who buy lottery tickets could 
but tell what numbers will draw prizes, and we who go a- 
courting could but know whether our lady-love is awaiting 
us with trembling emotion or loitering in the whispering 
grove with some other swain. 

I do not intend to place our young artist in the light of a 
lovelorn swain — it is too early for that yet — but that he had 
been affected by the beautiful Elenor Weston in a different 
way to what he had ever before been affected by woman, 
is very certain. He had seen many pretty women. Pretty 
women are plentiful — especially in the city, where he 
had lived so long — but beautiful women are rarely met 
with ; and Elenor Weston was an essentially beautiful 
woman. There was not only beauty of person, but beauty 
of mind — in fact, to be truly beautiful, the one is as neces- 
sary as the other — and there was an ineffable charm about 
her every movement, in truth, pervading her whole being, 
that was marvellous in its influence on those who came in 
contact with her. James Alford carried the influence of 
this charm away with him after his first visit ; and, though 
he would not admit to himself that he was in love with her 
— the idea of love at first sight he considered too ridiculous 
to merit a second thought — still he felt that she was the only 
woman who could ever so completely fill the throne of his 
idealistic woman. I leave the reader to judge for himself 
whether he was in love or not. When he thought of her in 
the solitude of his studio —and, I may add, he did that con- 
stantly — he continually repeated to himself that he was not ; 
but with that I have nothing to do at present, and I will 
leave the question to be solved by the developments of time, 
and proceed in the usual way with my story. My business 
is narration, and not investigation. 

A few days after his unsuccessful visit he went with his 
friend Tom to the Vatican. They made it a regular prac- 
tice to go there once a week to draw from the antique — as 
it is termed among artists. Towling seated himself near the 
renowned Apollo Belvidere, which ,he said he had drawn 
from every possible point of view except the one he chose 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Il6 

that day ; and Alford set to work to finish a drawing of the 
Dancing Faun, which he had already begun. 

They had not been at work very long when Alford heard 
the rustle of a dress behind him, and that indescribable per- 
fume which always pervades the atmosphere around a young 
and virtuous woman stole over his senses like a breath of 
air from a bed of violets. 

Has it ever been explained why it is that when certain in- 
dividuals are near us, we are aware of it, though we do not 
see them with our bodily eyes ? It has been tried on the 
sympathetic theory ; but sometimes the sympathy is all on 
one side, so this doctrine is hardly admissible. The ques- 
tion fs certainly of importance to psychologists ; but we will 
not discuss it here. It is enough for us that Alford knew 
who was looking over his shoulder, and his heart beat ner- 
vously while his hand wandered in rather an aimless way 
over his work. 

“ Why are you bent on spoiling that beautiful drawing, 
Mr. Alford ?’* said a musical voice behind him. “ Are you 
dissatisfied with the result of your labor that you treat it in 
that way ?’' 

Though the young man knew perfectly well she had been 
standing there overlooking him for several minutes, he 
turned round with a start at the sound of her voice. 

“Ah!” he said, “beg your pardon. Miss Weston; I 
didn’t know” — he was just going to utter a falsehood, but 
he checked himself. “ The truth is,” he continued, “ I 
didn’t know what I was about.” 

“ Oh !” she replied, with a comical look, “ that seems a 
curious state for any one to be under — but I forgot ; you 
are an artist, and I suppose you were dreaming. But pray 
don’t destroy the picture entirely,” as his hand continued to 
wander nervously over the paper. “ If you do not value it, 
give it to me, and I will preserve it in my portfolio, first 
writing on the back of it, ^ Captured from a mad young ar- 
tist, who, not knowing the value of time and labor, was 
about to sacrifice the fruits of both.’ ” 

“ Please excuse me Miss W^eston,” he said, suddenly 
rising from his chair, for in his confusion he had entirely 
forgotten what good manners required of him, and re- 
mained seated, toying with his pencil while she talked to 
him. 

“Excuse you for refusing me the picture?” she said, 
pretending to misunderstand him. “ Certainly, Mr. Alford. 
I would not have been so bold as to ask you for it had I not 
thought you were going to destroy it.” 


ALFORD FINDS A WOMAN ATTRACTIVE. 1 17 

“ No, no, not that — I meant to ask your pardon for my 
rudeness in remaining seated.” 

” Oh ! you need not trouble yourself about that ; it would 
be very hard on the artists if they were obliged to get up 
from their work every time a passer-by spoke to them. You 
haven't been here long enough to learn the ways of tiie peo- 
ple, Mr. Alford ; when you have, you will find them very 
pleasant — at least among the foreign residents. ' ’ 

‘ ‘ Are their ways so different here to what they are else- 
where ?” 

” Yes, I believe so. Here we form a sort of cosmopoli- 
tan republic, where artists, poets, nobles, and citizens meet 
upon an equal footing ; the requirements of etiquette^x^ 
not so rigidly enforced, and we lead a very pleasant life. 

While she was speaking Alford had been extracting the 
drawing of the Faun from his sketch-book, and when he 
had done so he handed it to her. 

” If you had not asked me for it, Miss Weston,” he said, 
” I should never have thought of offering you so poor an 
addition to your portfolio ; but such as it is, you are quite 
welcome to it. ” 

” Thank you,” she replied, taking the drawing and wrap- 
ping it carefully in her handkerchief. ” I do not profess to 
be much of a connoisseur but I’m sure you do not give your 
work credit for the merit it possesses. And now, as you 
seem little inclined to work, suppose you come and make 
the tour of the Vatican with me.” 

To this proposition the young man acceded most will- 
ingly. 

” My mother and Mr. Tulip are somewhere about,” she 
continued, looking around ; ” but they are most too slow in 
their movements to suit me, so you see it is fortunate that I 
find you in this idle humor.” 

Alford thought it fortunate for him, at any rate, as they 
wandered through the vast galleries talking pleasantly to- 
gether, more like old friends than new acquaintances. He 
wondered within himself how it was that he found himself 
thus suddenly on an easy and intimate footing with this 
sweet girl, whose wondrous beauty had at first quite fright- 
ened him ; but he soon discovered the secret cause that 
seemed from the very beginning of their acquaintance to 
unite them in closer bonds of friendship than might have 
been possible under ordinary circumstances. Mr. Hapton, 
whose letter had been the means of bringing the two to- 
gether, was Elenor Weston’s guardian, and was as dear to 
her as to her companion who owed so much to him. 


ii8 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


She told him this as they walked along. “ He was the 
oldest and dearest friend of my dear father,’' she said, her 
voire trembling a little, “ and he has been a second father to 
me. After the one great sorrow of my life, I have known 
no other except that occasioned by my parting with him 
seven years ago, when we came to Europe to live. I have 
corresponded with him regularly, and his letters are the 
most precious treasures I possess. So you see, Mr. Alford, 
we ought to be very good friends, as we both stand in the 
same position with him, if I understand your own relation 
to him aright.” 

Alford felt ashamed of himself for having delayed so long 
the presentation of that letter which had brought him the 
precious boon of her friendship, so frankly, and yet so mod- 
estly offered, and scarcely knew how to reply. 

” Miss Weston,” he said at last, ” I know not how to 
thank you for your kind consideration. I feel that I do not 
deserve it. ’ ’ 

” And why not ?” she asked, with the greatest simplicity. 

“I’m afraid I cannot explain that satisfactorily.” 

“ Very well, then, we will let it pass ; but, I assure you, 
if I did not really desire your friendship I would not say so. 
When I read Mr. Hapton’s letter, I made up my mind to 
like you, and when I saw you I did like you.” 

Alford looked with admiration on this noble girl, who, 
notwithstanding she was habituated to what is called polite 
society, was still so artless. “ How many of her sex,” he 
thought to himself, ” could say what she has just said to me 
without incurring the censure of the world, and laying her- 
self open to the charge of being forward ? But who could 
look at her and attach any evil construction to any thing her 
heart prompts her to say ? None but those censorious and 
vicious people who see nothing except with the evil-eye ^ 

“ We received your card the other day,” she said, after 
they had walked along a little while in silence, ” and we 
were so sorry not to have been at home when you called.” 

” You were not more sorry than I was, I’m sure,” said 
the young man, with the greatest sincerity. 

” Well, you must come again soon. We are always at 
home on Tuesdays, and Thursdays are our general reception 
days, unless there is some grand festival on either of those 
days, and then mamma always insists upon going to see the 
sights.” 

” I will certainly corrie,” responded Alford, “ and I shall 
select Tuesdays in preference to the general reception day 
for my visit.” 


ALFORD FINDS A WOMAN ATTRACTIVE. 119 


“ Do you love music?” she asked, as they came upon 
some marble representations of ancient musical instruments. 

” Would I be an artist if I did not ?” 

” A very imperfect one, I should think,” she said. 

' Are not all the fine arts — painting, sculpture, poetry, and 
music — a lovely sisterhood, depending upon the same prin- 
ciple — an harmonious combination of colors, lines, words, 
sounds — all conveying noble and pleasing ideas to the mind ?’ * 

“It would seem so,” said Alford, “and yet I believe 
there are men famous in each one of these arts who have no 
sympathetic affinities foir the sister arts. 

“ Can you explain this ?” 

“ No, I cannot, unless we consider them as the mere in- 
struments of a Divine Head who uses them for the elevation 
of mankind, as the different instruments are used by the 
leader of an orchestra to produce certain harmonies of 
which the instrument itself is ignorant.” 

“ Your comparison would do very well, Mr. Alford, if it 
were not for one thing.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ It places the poet or painter who does not feel the charm 
of music in the position of one who writes or paints simply 
because he can’t help it, without taking any delight in his 
soul in the beautiful things he produces, and I don’t think 
such a being ever existed.’' 

“ Yes, certainly, you are right ; but I did not intend my 
simile to stretch quite so far. Perhaps I should have said 
the musicians composing the orchestra, instead of the instru- 
ments — and even that I fear would hardly do ; for however 
intent each man may be on his particular part, being a musi- 
cian, it is not to be supposed that he is deaf to the grand 
whole which depends so much on the little share he is con- 
tributing.” 

“ I’m afraid my simple question has got you into a laby- 
rinth of difficulties,” said the young lady, laughing. 

“ I’m afraid it has,” responded Alford, echoing her 
laugh. “ I feel like a man lost in the catacombs. I would 
like to explain my meaning to you ; but it is evident that I 
can’t do it by any figure of speech.” 

“ So you will not try again, Mr. Alford ?” asked Elenor, 
with an amused look. 

“No, no. Miss Weston. I have failed too signally to 
make another effort.” 

“ Well, let me reassure you by telling you that your simile 
has answered its purpose admirably — its very fault has made 
your meaning more plain to me.” 


120 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


I am certainly glad if it has/’ said Alford, laughing; 

for, to tell you the truth, I began to think that I didn’t 
know what I meant myself.” 

” Now,” said Eleanor, ” I will tell you my interpretation 
of what you have been saying, if you do not object.” 

‘ ‘ Fray do so, ’ ’ replied the other ; ‘ ‘ nothing could please 
me more.” 

” Very well. First, then, I will take the artists. There 
are artists who have no appreciation of poetry further than 
it may suggest forms, pictures, to their minds : the deep 
undercurrent of thought which pervades a fine poem is lost on 
or hidden from them, and a poem of pure sentiment is mere 
trash in their estimation. As to music, these exceptional 
artists, of which fortunately there are few, care nothing for 
it.” 

‘ ‘ That is exactly the idea I wished to convey. ’ * 

” With the poets it is somewhat different. In almost all 
works of art there are certain poetical perceptions, and as 
far as those poetical perceptions go, the exceptional poets 
appreciate them, but no farther. I suppose all poets appre- 
ciate music, because a certain kind of music is a part of 
their art. As to musicians, there are doubtless numbers of 
them who have no appreciation whatever of either of the 
sister arts.” 

‘‘You have elucidated the subject most satisfactorily,” 
said Alford, somewhat astonished at the young lady’s per- 
spicacity. 

‘‘ Well, let me tell you, for your own satisfaction, ” she 
replied, with a charming smile, ‘‘ that I could not have done 
so without your simile, faulty as you thought it : it suggested 
the leading idea in my mind.” 

Alford felt flattered by this acknowledgment, but he said 
nothing, and just then they were joined by Mrs. Weston 
and Mr. Tulip. 

‘ ‘ O Mr. Alford, ’ ’ said the lady, extending her hand, and 
speaking with a mixture of affectation and cordiality that 
was rather bewildering to a neophyte in society, ‘‘ how glad 
I am to see you ! It really seems an age since we met. 
What shall I tell my dear old friend when I write to him ? 
— he who told us to treat you as his son — what shall I tell 
him ? that you haven’t given us the opportunity, you have 
been such a stranger?” 

‘‘ I called once, Mrs. Weston,” said the young man, in 
an embarrassed way, ‘ ‘ but you were not at home. ’ ’ 

” Once ! once !” said the lady, laughing with great juve- 
nility. ” What an acknowledgment ! But come, I will for- 


ALFORD FINDS A WOMAN ATTRACTIVE, I2I 


give you now if you will promise to do better in the future. 
As the adopted son of our dearest friend, I think we might 
expect something more of you than a fashionable call now 
and then — we would like you to drop in socially, at any 
time that suits you.’’ 

“ I will certainly be glad to do so,” said Alford, who, 
though not at all satisfied at being regarded as the adopted 
son of Mr. Hapton, who he had no reason to suspect looked 
upon him in any such light, was pleased at being placed on so 
familiar a footing. 

While this conversation was progressing, Mr. Tulip, with 
a pair of double eye-glasses across his carbuncled nose, had 
been regarding Alford with a contemptuous stare. When 
they first encountered he had bestowed a supercilious nod 
on the young man, intended to convey the idea that he did 
not regard him worth much consideration, and then stood 
off, staring at him. This treatment nettled the artist, but 
what could he do ? He tried to ignore the aged puppy ; 
but still that persistent stare discommoded him, and he was 
glad when Elenor Weston proposed to her mother that they 
should return home. 

He parted with them in the Loggia, Mrs. Weston reiterat- 
ing her desire that he should come to see them sociably, and 
her daughter telling him, with a smile that assured him she 
was sincere, that he would always be welcome. 

When Alford rejoined Towling, he found him still hard at 
work. 

” Come, old fellow,” he said, ” don’t you think it’s about 
time to be going ?” 

” I expect you think so,” replied his friend, without look- 
ing up. ** O, Alfordo mio ! come sei stato felice," 

Alford made no response to this remark, which he felt to 
be very true ; but took a seat near by, to await the other’s 
pleasure. 

” You have no heart for work now, my poor Alfredus,” 
continued Tom. ” I don’t blame you. The gods and god- 
desses of the ancients have no more charms for you : the 
moving, breathing personification of all loveliness has passed 
by them, and their much vaunted beauties have faded into 
nothingness.” 

As Alford still remained silent, his friend looked up at 
him with a keen, piercing glance of his bright black eyes. 
” Ah !” he said, with an affected sigh, ” poor fellow ! eyes 
hath he, but he sees not ; ears hath he, but he hears not ; 
and with his mouth he speaketh never a w^rd.” 

The object of these remarks could stand it no longer, but 


122 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


broke into a merry laugh. “Come, Tom,“ he said, 
“ that’s enough : finish your drawing, and let’s be going.” 

“ Oho !” cried Tom, jumping up and throwing himself 
into a theatrical attitude. “ Thank thee, O Apollo ! mighty 
god of light, the spell which the goddess of beauty threw 
around my friend is broken, and he is himself again.” 

“ Oh come, Tom !” said Alford, “ do stop this fooling, 
and if you are not particularly anxious to finish your draw- 
ing to-day, shut up your book, and let’s be off. It’s lucky 
there’s no one present just now besides myself, as you might 
be arrested for a madman, and lodged in the Castle of St. 
Angelo for safe keeping.” 

“ Ah no ! my dear friend,’’ replied the other ; “ there is 
no such good luck in store for me. You are the lucky dog, 
and perhaps it may fall to your lot some day, like every thing 
else.” 

“ What do you mean ? What good luck are you talking 
about?” 

“ Why, to be shut up in the Castle of St. Angelo, to be 
sure : there is nothing I would like better than to be arrest- 
ed for something, and shut up there ; but nothing with the 
odor of romance about it ever falls to me.” 

“ And you think that would have an odor of romance 
about it, do you ?” 

“ Indeed I do, and I have often been tempted to knock a 
soldier or a gendarme down, in hopes of having my desire 
accomplished ; but fortunately it has always occurred to me, 
just in the nick of time, that I might not be taken to the 
grand old mausoleum of Adrian at all, but thrust into some 
filthy den along with petty thieves and vagrants of varied 
hue.” 

“ There certainly would have been little of the odor of 
romance about that.,''' said Alford, laughing. 

“ Ah, Alfredo mio !” said his friend, with a sigh, “ to 
you it has been given to have the romantic side of life 
turned to you, while to me it presents only its every-day, 
matter-of-fact face. ’ ’ 

Towling having put up his drawing material while he was 
lamenting over the chief sorrow of his existence, the two 
young men left the Vatican and turned their faces home- 
wards. 


ALFORD ENJOYS SOCIAL PLEASURES. 


123 


CHAPTER XII. 

ALFORD ENJOYS SOCIAL PLEASURES. 

After this Alford became a frequent visitor at the Wes- 
tons'. He almost always met either Mr. Dimplechin or Mr. 
Tulip there, as well as other visitors, both male and female. 

He came to like Dimplechin, in a way ; at least, he did 
not dislike him as he had at first thought he would. He 
was one of these extremely bland, soft creatures, with noth- 
ing masculine about them, and no harm m them, who do the 
best they can to make themselves agreeable, and are fre- 
quently guilty of ill manners simply because they don’t 
know that there is any lack of good manners in what they 
do or say. He was soft-hearted and soft-headed ; but 
never was intentionally discourteous, as Tulip was. Be- 
tween the latter and the young artist there seemed to have 
grown up a smouldering hatred which only wanted a little 
spark to bring about an explosion. 

Alford did not trouble himself about Tulip, however, any 
more than he could help. That gentleman was evidently 
paying his court to Mrs. Weston, on whom he lavished his 
attentions with the air of a youth of twenty, and never came 
in his way enough to disturb his equanimity to any great ex- 
tent. Dimplechin, it was quite as evident, was very much 
in love with Elenor ; but, though the young lady treated 
him with unvarying kindness, the young 'man did not regard 
him as a very formidable rival ; for he had at last been 
obliged to acknowledge to himself that he was in love — 
hopelessly in love, he sometimes thought — with the fair girl 
who had solicited his friendship. 

Mrs. Weston always treated him with cordiality, and 
even a certain kind of affectionate consideration, and 
seemed to encourage his intimacy with her daughter ; but 
she always insisted upon regarding him — and often speaking 
of him to others — as the adopted son of a very rich and ex- 
cellent friend. Though this seemed to elevate him very 
much in the estimation of those who were made acquainted 
with the supposed fact, it was very far from pleasing to 
Alford, who preferred to stand upon his own merits, poor 
as those merits might be, rather than be foisted up on the 
shoulders of anybody’s name, fame, or wealth. If he could 
not rise by his own individual strength, and stand before the 
world without a prop, he felt that it would be better to live 


124 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


unknown and unhonored. The praise of the world is worth 
little at the best, and worse than nothing when obtained un- 
der false pretences. 

The first time he called on the Westons after meeting 
them at the Vatican, he met no one except Mr. Tulip, who 
saluted him with his usual discourteous nod, and continued 
his conversation with Mrs. Weston, as though there was no 
one else present. The lady, however, seemed to try to 
make amends for the rudeness of her gallant, and as he had 
already estimated the man at about his true value, he was 
no ways disconcerted. After the few commonplace 
speeches required by courtesy, he withdrew with the 
younger lady to the music-room, leaving Tulip to his ficti- 
tious twaddle about his adventures with princes, dukes, and 
every other order of nobility known, which he interlarded 
with a plentiful amount of cackle intended for laughter. 

“ I am so glad you have come, Mr. Alford,” said Ele- 
nor. ” I had made up my mind to pass rather a dull evening 
when you lightened the horizon by your timely appearance.” 

” I shall certainly feel flattered if I can by any means 
contribute to your passing a pleasant evening,” said the 
young man, with a blush of pleasure. 

“You certainly can,” she replied. ” We generally have 
plenty of company — more, in fact, than I sometimes care 
for ; but this evening there is a grand representation of some 
new pantomime and ballet at the Tor de Noni, and I sup- 
pose everybody has gone to see it. Mamma, for some un- 
accountable reason, refused to go ; and novy I am glad of it, 
for I would not have liked to have you call a second time 
and found us away from home.” 

” I am certainly glad to have found you at home,” was 
the reply, ” though I would not for the world have been the 
cause of depriving you of so great a pleasure.” 

” Oh ! I have seen pantomimes and ballets enough,” she 
said, laughing. ” A new one is announced every now and 
then ; but, after all, there is very little material difference in 
them. I love the opera, and I take great delight in Gol- 
doni’s comedies ; but after those and Alfieri’s tragedies, 
which we seldom have a chance to see, there is nothing 
worth consideration on the Italian stage.” 

” Goldoni’s comedies must be excellent, if simplicity of 
language is a merit in literary productions, for I can under- 
stand the most of them without much difficulty, little as I 
know of Italian.” 

” Don’t you think the situations in a play help one to a 
clear understanding of the dialogue ?” 


ALFORD ENJOYS SOCIAL PLEASURES, 125 

“ I have no doubt of it, and I suppose that is the reason 
the theatre is considered a good school for those who are 
learning a language. I’m sure I can comprehend the lan- 
guage of Goldoni’s characters much better than I can that 
of the people with whom I am brought in contact every 
day. ’ ’ 

'‘Of course you can.” The plays are written in pure 
Italian, and among the ordinary run of Italians there are 
none who speak their own tongue with purity — except, per- 
haps, the Tuscans. But tell me, Mr. Alford, have you 
heard from Mr. Hapton recently ?” 

"Yes, I received a letter from him to-day — he writes to 
me generally about once every three or four weeks. I 
brought his letter with me in my pocket, for there is a mes- 
sage in it to yourself, and I did not know if I could remem- 
ber exactly its purport.” 

" Oh, thank you ! But I must protest against his giving 
me up as a correspondent because he has got you here to 
deliver messages. I assure you, I would rather give up the 
opera than Mr. Hapton’s letters.” 

" Well, that is saying a great deal, I know ; but you 
needn’t have any fear on that score. Mr. Hapton has no 
intention of dropping his correspondence with you — at least 
I judge so from what he says. But here is the letter, and if 
you desire I will read that part of it relating to yourself.” 

" Pray do so.” 

Alford then commenced to read : "I suppose that you 
see a good deal of Mrs. and Miss Weston. As I told you, 
they are very old and dear friends of mine, and I hope you 
will cultivate their friendship. You will find — ” Here he 
stopped abruptly, and seemed to be looking down the page 
for something else. 

"Well, why don’t you goon, Mr. Alford?” asked the 
young lady. " What does he think you will find ?” 

" Oh ! it is unnecessary to read all that,” he replied, with a 
slightly perceptible blush. " I have already found what he 
tells me I will.” 

"What have you found?” asked Elenor, with a gentle 
little laugh. " I hope there is no great mystery about it.” 

" Oh no ! no great mystery ; but it does not matter just 
now — perhaps — perhaps — I will tell you some day.” He 
looked a little confused, and then went on hurriedly. 
" Here is what I was looking for. ' Tell Miss Weston that 
I have an offer to lease her cottage for a term of, four or five 
years ; but I hesitate to do so, not knowing but that her 
mother may design coming back to America before that time 


I26 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


would expire, in which case she might wish it free for 
their own occupation. I send this message through you in 
order that they may have a little time to consider the matter 
before I write to Miss Weston more fully about it, as I shall 
do very shortly. ’ ' ’ 

“ Then I presume,'* said Elenor, “ I may look to get a 
letter from him very soon." 

" It would seem so from what he says." 

“And you will not tell me what it is in the letter, that 
made you stop so suddenly, Mr. Alford ? I’m sure that is 
more interesting than the business about the cottage." 

" I can’t possibly do it. Miss Weston — at least not now," 
he added hesitatingly. 

" Then you promise to tell me some time. My curiosity 
is really excited, for I don’t pretend to be lacking in that 
weakness so often falsely imputed to woman alone." 

" You are perfectly right. Miss Weston, in saying that 
this weakness — if that may be termed a weakness which has 
led to all the great discoveries in science — is talsely imputed 
to woman alone. I have seen men who had curiosity 
enough — and the idlest and most unprofitable kind of curi- 
osity — to furnish half a dozen women, and then have plenty 
to spare for themselves. I am sorry that I have excited 
your curiosity in this way. I did not intend to read that 
part of my letter at all ; but as I did do so, I will tell you 
the balance — some day — at least, I think I will — indeed, I’m 
sure I will.” 

" Well, well," said the young lady, " I suppose I must 
have patience. Now let us have some music." 

She sat down to the piano-forte, and ran her fingers gently 
over the keys, and as soon as she did so Alford heard a flut- 
ter of wings over his head. The next instant a little golden 
oriole was perched upon the fair musician’s shoulder. The 
little chap had left his perch in the cage, the door of which 
stood open, and come to listen to the music. 

"Why, Titto," she said, taking the bird on her finger, 
and caressing it lovingly, " I had quite forgotten you. He 
is a dear little pet, Mr. Alford, and passionately fond of 
music. He will quit his slumbers at midnight at the first 
sound of the piano : I have tried him sometimes when I 
have come in late from the opera." 

" He certainly is a beauty," said the young man, " and a 
worthy companion for his mistress." 

" Come, he mustn’t flatter us, must he, Titto ?’’ she said. 
" Though he says what is quite true about you, Titto ; you 
are a beauty ;" and she rubbed his soft feathers against her 


ALFORD ENJOYS SOCIAL FLEAS DEES. 


127 


cheek. “ And to think of men being such monsters as 
to swallow these pretty creatures just for a moment’s gratifi- 
cation of their sensual appetites. He is sometimes my sole 
companion for days — when Rome is deserted by all our 
friends — and then I think of what would have been his fate 
had I not rescued him from the clutches of the boy who was 
going to wring his neck — poor Titto.” 

Every time she mentioned his name the bird hopped 
about on her hand, and looked in her face, as if he would 
say, “ I know what you are talking about — it’s all about me 
— me — nothing but me.” 

” I think at such times about my poor Titto being spitted 
and roasted,” continued Titto ’s mistress, ” and of Mr. 
Tulip eating him at a tratoria ; and it gives me the hor- 
rors. Just imagine a man like Mr. Tulip gormandizing my 
Titto” — and she gave Titto a kiss which the young man 
can hardly be blamed for envying him, but which he — 
Titto — took quite as a matter of course. She then placed 
him on a pile of music-books, and began to play upon the 
piano-forte as if she were trying to banish from her mind the 
dreadful idea which had connected him with Mr. Tulip. 

She played several selections of operatic music with excel- 
lent execution and expression — the bird watching her all the 
while, with his head cocked on one side, very much as a 
pretentious fellow who wishes to be considered a critic 
does at the opera — and when she came to a pause, Alford 
asked her if she did not sing.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “I sing; but my efforts in that 
way are connned to ballads or Italian canzonette : I haven’t 
voice enough for more ambitious performances.” 

She then sang the following little scherzo, as the Italians 
would express it : 

** Cara Lisa, Ahi ! si bella ! 

Cara bella — bella cara : 

Bella quanta una Stella, 

Quand’ la luna non si vedi — 

Cara bella — bella lady. 

** Quando gl’ al’b’ri mormoranno — 

Cara bella — bella cara — 

I pensieri miei fanno 
Sogni dolci che si ti credi 
Cara bella — bella lady.” 

And now, Mr. Alford,” she said, when she had con- 
cluded her song, it is your turn to entertain Titto and me. 
I’m sure you sing ; but will you have me accompany you on 
the piano, or will you accompany yourself on the guitar ?” 


128 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


There was a guitar lying on the piano, over the strings of 
which Titto had been dancing and fluttering in a sort of 
ecstasy, while his mistress was singing. Alford had learned 
to strum a few accompaniments on that instrument, and he 
picked it up and ran his fingers softly over the chords. 

I have not much voice,” he said, ” and I’m afraid you 
will find my performance but indifferent ; but I will do my 
best.” 

” That is all I can expect,” she said, with a pleasant, 
gentle laugh, ” and you must leave me to judge of the merits 
of your performance. If I do not like your singing, I will 
not ask you to sing again, for I do not believe in asking 
people to do what they do not know how to do just for the 
compliment of the thing.” 

The young man was pleased with her frankness, and sang, 
with a sweet, but by no means powerful tenor voice, 

“THE SERENADE. 

“ The mocking-bird songless sits, 

The cricket is hushed on the hearth, 

The dusky leatherwing silently flits 
Through mists that enshroud the earth, 

“ The moon glimmers down the sky, 

And silvers the brook as it flows ; 

The wind creeps out of the garden to fly 
With sweets of the ravished rose. 

“ I steal under shade of night 
Thy spirit with music to move ; 

To weave thy dreams in the tender starlight 
To lays that shall thrill with love.” 

Titto, as soon as Alford began to sing, had flown back to 
his cage, and nothing could induce him to leave it again. 

” Poor fellow, he is tired,” said his mistress, by way of 
excusing his apparent rudeness. 

” No indeed,” said her guest ; ” he is indignant at the 
idea of my trying to sing. Give the bird credit for proper 
discernment. Miss Weston.” 

” I’ll do no such thing,” she replied. ” I’ll not admit 
that his judgment is better than mine, and I think you sing 
well. He is a jealous little wretch — that is what is the mat- 
ter with him. O Titto, Titto!” and she shook her finger 
playfully at him ; but the bird paid no attention to her, sit- 
ting moodily on his perch. ” Well, now, to punish him. 
I’ll make you sing again and she placed the guitar, which 
he had laid down, once more in his hands. 


ALFORD ENJOYS SOCIAL PLEASURES. 


129 


The request was a delicate compliment, after what she 
had told him, and he complied with it without hesitation, 
singing the first little ballad that came into his mind : 

“ Maiden of the midnight eye, 

Nut-brown maid of Italy, 

There is one who makes me sigh, 

Whose beauty with thine own can vie — 

Nut-brown maid of Italy. 

“ Raven locks shade not her brow, 

She hath not thy Roman face : 

Round her golden glories flow. 

In her eyes sweet violets blow. 

And she has an angel’s grace. 

Purest thoughts dwell in her glance, 

Sweetest music in her voice ; 

Light she moves, as zephyrs dance. 

And whatever fate may chance. 

She will be my soul’s first choice. 

“ Though she ne’er may love to hear 
Thoughts that I like jewels keep. 

In my heart of hearts I’ll wear 
Her sweet image, pure and fair. 

And I’ll worship though I weep.” 

Just as Alford concluded his song, Mr. Dimplechin came 
in. 

** Aw, Miss Weston,’* he said, after saluting the other oc- 
cupant of the room in an offhand kind of way, which he 
thought was quite civil, though it was really impertinent, 
“ I’m so sowwy you didn’t go to the pantomime — it was 
just splendid, I can assure you.” 

‘ ‘ Why, is it finished already ?’ ’ asked the young lady. 

” Well — no — not quite ; but I got tired, you know, and I 
just thought I’d come round and tell you all about it.” 

“You are certainly very kind,” responded Elenor, smil- 
ing, “ but how can you tell me all about it when you didn’t 
see it all yourself ?” 

“ Oh ! I saw enough, you know. There was just a devil, 
you know — a howwid devil — all dwessed in black and wed, 
and he tempted a young feller to sell his soul, and the 
young feller did sell his soul, and did a heap of devil- 
ment himself ; and I suppose they all went off in blue 
flames and smoke in the end, though I didn’t stay to 
see it. The fact is. Miss Weston, I was so anxious to 
tell you about it — for I looked everywhere and couldn’t find 
you — that I huwwid away, for fear you might be gone to 
bed or something, you know.” 


130 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ I am very much obliged to you,” said the young lady ; 
” but I am sorry that you denied yourself the pleasure of 
witnessing the catastrophe just to tell me.” 

” Oh ! I don’t mind, you know ; I’ve seen lots of ’em be- 
fore, and shall go to see this one again, and perhaps I can 
persuade you to go with me.” 

” Oh ! thank you ; I should certainly be pleased to do so ; 
but you are aware that I am always at the command of 
mamma, so I can make no positive engagement. But per- 
haps we might make up a party for some night next week ;” 
and the speaker turned to Alford, who had sat silent, and 
greatly amused at the young man who had been so anxious 
to unburden himself of his remarkably vivid recolllections of 
the pantomime. He saw at once that the poor fellow was 
little better than a simpleton, and all his anger at what he 
had at first considered the intentional impertinence of pup- 
pyism vanished. 

” Aw — yes — to be sure — that would be very nice,” said 
Dimplechin, who, noticing the direction of the young lady’s 
glance, stuck his eye-glass in his eye and turned in the same 
direction himself. ” Yes — to be sure,” he continued, ” and 
perhaps Mr. — aw — aw — ” 

” Alford,” said Elenor. 

” Yes — aw — Alford — Mr. Alford will join us.” 

” I shall most assuredly be happy to do so,” said Alford 
readily. 

” Aw — yes — certainly,” said Dimplechin, rather discon- 
certed at the acceptation of the invitation which he had 
really expected would be refused, for he wanted no other 
young man along besides himself. Then he looked around 
in a helpless sort of way, as if he would like somebody to 
assist him out of the dilemma : but Alford, who perceived 
at once the effect of his acquiescence in the proposed ar- 
rangement, had no intention of withdrawing ; and Miss Wes- 
ton, who had led him into the trap intentionally — for she 
did not intend to be subjected to his exclusive companion- 
ship for a whole evening if she could help it — said not a 
word. 

Not having the readiness of the impecunious Frenchman — 
who, having invited an American friend to dine with him and 
been surprised by his coming, informed him, in the politest 
manner possible, that he really had no dinner to offer, unless 
a glass of eau sucre and a toothpick would satisfy his appetite, 
and that he had only invited him for de compliment — he 
nervously took his eye-glass from his eye and replaced it sev- 
eral times, and then repeated his words backwards. ” Cer- 


TOWLING^S LUCK, 


tainly — yes — aw — ” he said ; adding, it would seem in sheer 
desperation, “ if Miss Weston doesn’t object, of course — of 
course — it’s all right, you know.” 

Miss Weston certainly did not object — that was evident ; 
and it was as much as she could do to keep from laughing 
aloud at the awkwardness and rudeness of the speech, 
though she was perfectly well aware that the speaker was 
entirely unconscious of any want of good manners on his 
part. Alford looked at the young lady and smiled. He 
was perfectly well satisfied with matters as they stood, and 
had learned enough of Dimplechin, even in the few minutes 
he had been in his company, to know that he was hardly ac- 
countable in the usual way for what he might say or do. In 
a few minutes he took his departure, leaving Mr. Dimple- 
chin still evidently dissatisfied with the plan which had been 
arranged. 


CHAPTER XIII. 
towling’s luck. 

As was stated in the beginning of the last chapter, Alford 
became a frequent visitor at the Westons’, and formed a 
sort of liking for poor Dimplechin, who soon got over his 
pique, and manifested a desire to cultivate the acquaintance 
of the young artist, who, he saw, was held in high estimation 
by both Elenor Weston and her mother. The former es- 
teemed him for his many noble qualities as a man as well as 
for his talents, while the latter regarded him only in the false 
light in which she herself had chosen to place him — as the 
adopted son of a man whom she knew to be very wealthy — 
and accordingly could not do enough to show him how much 
she valued him, while she never tired of talking about the 
immense riches of Mr. Hapton. As I said before, this was 
a disagreeable subject to the young man — only, however, 
because the lady would persist in considering him as the 
heir-apparent, always laughing at his protests to the contrary, 
and insisting that he was too modest to acknowledge the 
truth. 

He met many men of a very different stamp to Dimple- 
chin and Tulip in their apartments, some of whom caused 
him serious pangs of jealousy by their assiduous attentions 
to the younger lady ; but those two seemed to have estab- 
lished thernselves as a necessary appendage — or evil, shall I 
gay ?— and Alford found the former serve as ^gort pf foil, 


132 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


he never hesitated to intrude himself upon the young lady’s 
notice at any time, sometimes interrupting a tHe-a-the at a 
moment when affairs looked quite serious to any one particu- 
larly interested. Strange to say, Dimplechin never seemed 
to have any fear of the young artist himself as a rival in the 
young lady’s affections. Perhaps it was because she treated 
him with that easy familiarity which in most cases preclude 
the idea of the existence of any tenderer sentiment than 
friendship ; or perhaps it was, he thought — having heard 
the notion advanced by others with regard to artists in 
general— that being an artist, Alford was too much in love 
with his art to concern himself about any other love. How- 
ever that may be, he soon began to make a confidant of him 
— not only with regard to his supreme adoration for Miss Wes- 
ton, but with respect to almost every thing that concerned 
himself. From meeting him in the cafes — where he invaria- 
bly took a seat alongside his victim, if there was one vacant 
^he got to visiting him at his studio, where he bored him 
beyond measure with his lisping twaddle about his own 
affairs, his hopes, and fears in general. 

Alfor.d soon found that it was useless to hint that he 
ought not to make such things the subject of conversation ; 
his intellect was too obtuse to take in the idea that his 
affairs were not as interesting to others as to himself ; and 
like a loving mother, whose whole heart and soul are 
wrapped up in her baby, and who, naturally enough, can 
find no other subject with which to entertain her friends, he 
— his whole heart and soul being wrapped up in himself — 
could find nothing better than himself to talk about. 

There are two kinds of bores in this world who are each 
other’s opposites. The one is the man who makes it the 
business of his life to find out every thing — private or public 
— concerning all whom he may encounter ; questioning, 
cross-examining, pumping every one, be he friend or stran- 
ger ; the other is the man who considers himself in honor 
bound to let the world know all that concerns himself, even 
to his most private affairs. One is the officious personifica- 
tion of impudent, insatiable, idle curiositv ; the other is the 
victim of imbecility ; and of the two I prefer the latter — if 
one can be said to have a preference for one of two things 
both of which he detests. 

In spite of this boring propensity of Dimplechin’s, Alford 
had learned to like him — after a certain sort — chiefly, it is 
presumable, owing to a good-natured, soft-headed innocence 
about him that seemed sufficient excuse for his many silly, 
childish foibles. 


TOWLINGS LUCK. 


133 


“Come, Alfword, “ he said one day, after regaling the 
artist for about the fiftieth time with an account of old 
Dimplechin’s wealth, “ the old man makes me a libewal 
allowance, you know, and I’ve always got plenty of spare 
cash, and you painter fellers are genewally mostly hard up, 
you know ; so if you should want to bower any money don’t 
hesitate to say so. I’ll be glad to lend you some without 
int’west — without int’west, you know. Of course int’west 
is all very well in most cases ; but where it’s a matter of 
favwor between fwiend and fwiend, of course not — you un- 
derstand.’’ 

‘ ‘ Oh yes ! I understand, ’ ’ said the painter, smiling ; ‘ ‘ but 
I hope I shall never have occasion to take advantage of your 
kind offer, with or without interest. My few wants in that 
way are fully supplied at present ; but I thank you all the 
same for the good intention.” 

“Aw — yes, yes,” said the other, “ I suppose yon have 
all the money you need just now ; but I didn’t know but the 
old feller — beg your pardon: the old gentleman I mean — who 
has taken you in hand might sometimes be short-handed, 
you know — they all sometimes are — and then your wemit- 
tances might not come up to time ; and then you’d be in a 
fix, you know.” 

“ Thank you, thank you,” said Alford ; “ but I have no 
fear of such a contingency. However, if such a thing 
should by any chance happen, I will not hesitate to place 
myself under obligations to you.” 

“ That’s wight, that’s wight ; but don’t talk about obliga- 
tions, old feller : there’s no obligations between fwiends, 
you know. Now there’s Tulip : he has bowered lots of 
money fwom me. I offered to lend it to him just as I did 
to you ; but he insisted upon considering the int’west. He 
has pwomised to pay me back when he mawies Mrs. Weston. 
Do you think he’ll ever mawy her ?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the other, returning to his 
work, which had been interrupted for the moment. “ I’m 
sure I don’t know ; but I sincerely hope she will never 
marry him.'' 

“ You don’t like him ?” 

“ I neither like nor dislike him. I was at first inclined to 
hate him ; but I soon found he was unworthy of any consid- 
eration whatever one way or another, and so I let him drop 
from my thoughts altogether. I don’t think I have ex- 
changed a dozen words with the man since I first met him. 
I tell you this now, because I don’t wish to talk about him 
again. But I don’t want to set you against your friend, 


134 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


Dimplechin ; if you like him, I dare say it*s all right — you 
probably have some reason for it/' 

“ Well, to tell you the truth," said Dimplechin, after a 
few minutes' reflection, " I don’t like the feller myself, but 
I have got in the way of being with him a good deal, you 
know. You see he is sweet on the old lady, as I am on the 
young one, and so we’ve been thrown together a gweat 
deal ; and I've lent him a good deal of money ; but he has a 
way of snubbing a feller that’s not vewy pleasant." 

" I should think he would treat you differently, consider- 
ing the obligations he is under to you." 

" There’s just it, you see. He doesn’t consider it in the 
light of obligations at all ; but insists upon calling it busi- 
ness twansactions, and is always calculating the int'west, 
you know." 

Alford laughed, but said no more ; and shortly after 
Dimplechin left him in peace. But he was not to be left in 
that happy state for long. In a few minutes he heard Tow- 
ling enter his studio, which was adjoining his own. He had 
often asked his friend to go to the Westons’ with him, but 
he had always made one excuse or another for not comply- 
ing with the request, the chief of which was, that he was 
certain he should fall in love with the young lady, and as 
there was no earthly hope of his love being reciprocated, 
his life would thus be wrecked. The truth was, Towling 
was one of those men who do not care for ladies' society, 
who would rather spend an evening with a dozen jovial 
blades than with the fairest dames the sun ever shone upon. 

For a little while there was a dead silence in Towling's 
room, and his neighbor began to wonder what the occupant 
was about, when all of a sudden there was a tremendous 
crash, follovved by a wild hurrah, and then the furniture be- 
gan to tumble about — even the old iron stove joining in the 
racket — until one would have thought the place had been 
taken possession of by a band of the furniture-moving spirits 
of modern days. Alford hurriedly laid aside his palette and 
went to see what was the matter. He did not know exactly 
what to expect ; but he had half a notion that he should 
find his friend engaged in a desperate conflict with some 
robber whom he had found in his room. The door was 
half open, and he entered without knocking, which would 
have been a useless expenditure of politeness. The scene 
that met his eyes was one that filled him with consternation. 
There was no one present except Towling himself, but he 
was whirling around the room, dancing a saraband of the 
wildest and most diabolical description, to the music of a 


TOWLING^S LUCK, 


135 

piece of paper which he rattled about his ears. The furni- 
ture and easel were lying scattered about the floor, and 
every thing was in confusion. He knew that Towling was 
one of those men who, though they may drink more than is 
good for them, never get drunk, and concluded at once that 
he had gone suddenly mad. But, to his great relief, the 
madman as soon as he saw him ceased his wild antics, and 
seized his hand. 

‘ ‘ O my dear friend, ’ ’ he said, almost breathless with his 
recent exertions, ‘ ‘ my good Alfredus ! you have come to 
congratulate me.’* 

“ To congratulate you ! — what about ?” said Alford, still a 
little dubious with regard to his sanity. “ What is the mat- 
ter with you ? Has the foul fiend seized you ?” 

“ No,’' replied the other, ‘‘ but he has seized my pre- 
cious uncle, as you will see by reading that document.” 
With that he gave the paper he still held in his hand to his 
friend, and went about setting his furniture to rights again. 

Alford set a chair on its legs, and sat down on it, and 
smoothing out the paper, which proved to be a letter, read : 

” Dear Tom : I write to inform you that our highly 
respected and very amiable relation. Old File, alias Thomas 
Hammerhard — in whose honor, by the way, I believe you 
were christened Tom — has at last taken his departure for 
that realm where — if the strange doctrine of a certain dead 
theologian be true, that it is paved with the skulls of 
infants not two spans long — he will be supremely happy. 

” I fancy, from what I have heard with regard to the cir- 
cumstances of his death, that you were, in an indirect way, 
concerned in it ; though I don’t think* you need let that rest 
heavy on your conscience. 

” It seems that among the lot of pictures you sent him 
last was one that struck his fancy — which we all know was 
a little peculiar — to a very extraordinary degree. I don’t 
know what was the subject of the picture, though it must 
have been something horrible ; and you will probably know 
which of your works brought about ‘ a consummation so de- 
voutly to be wished. ’ At any rate, whatever it was, he was 
so delighted with it that he determined to keep it for him- 
self, and not to part with it at any price. He hung it in his 
dining-room, where he could gloat over it while he ate and 
drank and smoked, and in its especial honor invited him- 
self to a feast, which consisted chiefly of Irish whiskey, hot 
water, and lemons. It is hardly necessary to tell you, he 
got gloriously — yes, thrice gloriously drunk. He got sober 


136 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


again in time ; but never recovered from the effects of his 
debauch, and has been gradually sinking ever since, dying 
about a week ago in the full possession of his senses. 

“ Now comes the strangest part of my story. Incredible 
as it may seem — but who can account for the caprices of 
such a man ? — that picture which you painted, and which was 
the indirect cause of his demise, was also the cause of your 
stepping into a very handsome fortune. The old chap left 
you his sole residuary legatee, which simply means that you 
get every thing after the few debts he owed are paid ; for he 
didn’t leave our mother nor any other member of the family 
a cent. 

“ It may seem unfeeling in me tahave told you that you 
were in any way instrumental in bringing about the death of 
the man whose last act was to do you so good a turn ; but I 
don’t think you need feel grieved at the fact that you aided 
and abetted in his departure from this world, which seems 
never to have been regulated exactly to suit his peculiar and 
philanthropic views. Bear up with a brave heart, my dear 
brother, against this overwhelming affliction, and take com- 
fort in the old adage, ‘ it’s an ill wind that blows nobody 
any good.’ 

“lam told that as soon as he was convinced he must die, 
he sent for a lawyer. When the attorney entered the room 
the first words he said to him were, * Do you see that pic- 
ture there, Mr. ? ’ for he had had it transported to his 

bedroom, and hung where he could see it from where he 
lay. 

‘ ‘ Mr. looked at the picture when his attention was 

thus called to it, and then at his client, and simply an- 
swered, ‘ Yes.’ 

“ ‘ Well, what do you think it is worth ? ’ asked the old 
man, with a hideous grin, for he was amused at the puzzled 
look on the other’s face. 

“ ‘ Well, really, Mr. Hammerhard,’ replied the astonished 
lawyer, ‘ I can’t say. I’m no judge of such matters.’ 

“ ‘ Who said you were a judge ? * said the other testily ; 
^ but judge or no judge, you can give a rough guess, can’t 
ye?’ 

“ ‘ No, really, I cannot ; and if that is all you wanted, 
you had better have sent for the celebrated Daubpink, who 
IS in that line.’ 

“ ‘ Daubpink be damned ! ’ shouted the old fellow. Cele- 
brated he may be, but he knows no more about what it’s 
worth than you do ; but I do — I do ;’ and he chuckled to him- 
self with ghastly glee. ‘ 1 know what it’s worth — I know — 


TOW LINGS LUCK, 


137 


ha, ha, ha ! it*s worth all I'm worth — every cent in the world 
— and that’s what I’m going to pay for it. Tom’s a good 
boy : he knows my taste, and he painted it expressly for 
me ; I know he did. ’ 

“ The lawyer stared at him, perfectly amazed. He thought 
the man had gone deranged. 

“ ‘ As to the picture as a work of art,’ he gasped at last, 
“as I told you just now, I know nothing about it ; but 
whatever may be its merits in that way, I must say I do not 
like the subject ; it is most too tragic for my taste ; and I 
don’t believe there can be a picture in existence that is 
worth the price you say you intend to pay for that. ’ 

“ ‘ Pshaw, pshaw ! ’ said Old File. ‘ You don’t like the 
subject, eh ? — most too tragic. What the devil do you know 
about tragedy, except when it ends in the hanging of some 
rascal that you have asked a jury of fools to hang ? And 
maybe the poor devil didn’t deserve hanging at all, only you 
were paid to get him hung. I tell you it’s a glorious sub- 
ject, sir, a glorious subject ; and I’ll tell you what I mean 
by paying all I’m worth for that picture. I intend to make 
my will in favor of the man that painted it : there ! 
what do you think of that ? But you don’t like the subject. 
Well, that will do : you can’t make my will. Here, John, 
show this damned conceited coxcomb out. Let him go 
teach artists how to paint — don’t like the subject, eh ? — damn 
it — he can’t make my will.’ 

“ Mr. was shown out accordingly, and another 

lawyer brought, who being instructed as to how matters 
stood, was more circumspect in giving his opinion with re- 
gard to the picture, and the will was made. 

“ I should have written to you sooner ; but thought I 
would wait a few days and see what would turn up — for 
there was no telling what connections our dearly beloved 
uncle might have formed in the course of his vicious exist- 
ence — and, sure enough, something has turned up with a 
vengeance. A fellow’ who claims to be his son has turned 
up, and intends to contest the will. He has employed 

Mr. , the lawyer who was first called in, and who is 

naturally desirous of breaking the will that he was not 
allowed to make ; for lawyers, you know, must either make 
or break something — wills or necks, it matters little which — 
or they are not flourishing and happy. 

“ The fellow, his pretended son, calls himself Hammer- 
hard now, although up to the present time he has always 
been known as Tompkins. Maybe he is his son ; for aught 
I know to the contrary he is : he looks enough like him, 


138 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


and is enough like him in every way ; but if he is, it is 
az/ natiirel^ as the Frenchman says. 

“ As matters stand, I think you had better make arrange- 
ments to come home as soon as possible to look after your 
own interests. 

“ All of our very numerous connection at home are in 
good standing as regards health, but in an unprecedented 
state of excitement — naturally. 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“Harry Towling.’' 

“Well,” said Alford, laughing as he handed the letter 
back to his friend, “ I hope you will bear this affliction with 
fortitude, as your brother says, Torn.’* 

“ Ah !“ replied Tom, with an affected air of melancholy, 
“ it seems hard, don’t it, that this great and good man 
should be taken from us — and at such a time, at such a 
time, O amico znio — when he had just learned to appreciate 
the great merits of his humble relative. But I’ll tell you 
what, Alfredus, I’ll not sit down like a child and grieve over 
a loss that can never — no never — be repaired. I’ll be ‘ up 
and doing,’ as the poet says. I can be ready to start for 
home in about a week, and in the mean time I intend to have 
a good time generally. You must lay aside your palette for 
a few days in honor of my accession, and, to quote another 
poet, we’ll ‘make a Roman holiday,’ winding up with a 
grand jollification. I know a lot of devilish fine fellows, 
belonging to every nationality in Europe, and we’ll invite 
them to an evening entertainment — a swearee^ as the boys in 
America call it. I will have a good supper, with plenty of 
tipple, such as these fellows like, laid in my rooms, and you 
will not object to lend me yours, I’m sure, to receive the 
guests in. What do you say to it ?’’ 

“ What can I say to it, my dear friend ? The prospect 
you hold out is too brilliant to be contemplated with equa- 
nimity, and there will be but one cloud to cast a shadow on 
the brightness of our existence during the next week, and 
that is the certainty that I am to lose you as soon as it is 
ended.” 

“ Alas ! that is too true, il mio povero ragazzo. But let 
not that weigh too heavily upon you, O Telemachus ; you 
will lose your Mentor, but you will have a Circe to console 
you. ” 

Alford blushed and said nothing more, and in a few min- 
utes the two young men went out together. 


OLIVER IN BALTIMORE. 


m 


CHAPTER XIV. 

OLIVER IN BALTIMORE. 

Before Oliver Maxwell started for Baltimore he had re- 
ceived many directions from Mr. Dinning — who had had oc- 
casion to visit that city several times — and was not much at a 
loss when he got there. Being a sensible youth, he was not 
bewildered, as stupid country boys generally are on their 
first arrival in a great city ; but following the instructions of 
his kind friend the school-master, he soon found his way to 
a certain decent hotel, where the charges were not extrava- 
gant, and the fare, though plain, was good. He was strik- 
ingly handsome, and there was something very prepossess- 
ing in his whole bearing, and but for a few peculiarities in 
his dress, no one would ever have supposed he was other 
than a city-bred boy. 

After a good night's rest he started out in search of Mr. 
Hapton’s place of business. He had received a second let- 
ter from Alford, in which the writer had urged him, in case 
he did go to Baltimore, to make it his first business to call 
upon that gentleman, assuring him that he would find it to 
his great advantage, telling him also that he had already 
paved the way for his kind reception, and received assur- 
ances from his best of friends that he would do all that lay 
in his power to assist him. 

Mr. Hapton was in his private office, and the head 
clerk of the establishment sent a messenger to inform 
him that a young gentleman from the country, named 
Maxwell, desired to see him. In a few minutes Oliver 
was ushered into the presence of the merchant, who was 
sitting at his desk awaiting his appearance. He was a 
noble-looking man, with deep-set gray eyes, which looked 
almost black at times ; but with a translucent brilliancy 
in them that black eyes never have. The hair, which 
crowned a fine broad brow, was as white as snow, and 
though his features were very far from being what is 
termed regular, there was an expression of sweet benevo- 
lence which, combined with the splendid eyes and intellec- 
tual head, made him a handsome man — handsomer, proba- 
bly, in his old age than he had ever been in his younger 
days. 

When the old man first cast his eyes on the youth — who 
saluted him in a graceful and respectful manner, not gen- 


140 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


erally noticeable among American youths, unhappily — he 
started back in his chair and gasped as though he had re- 
ceived a sudden blow. He immediately recovered himself, 
however, and bid his visitor be seated. 

“ James Alford has spoken very highly of you to me. 
Master Maxwell,'* he said, after a few minutes’ silence, dur- 
ing which he had never taken his eyes — which had sud- 
denly lost their wondrous brilliancy and assumed an expres- 
sion of deep melancholy — olf of the boy. “ I am pleased 
to see you, and shall be glad to do what I can for you. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you, sir,” replied Oliver. ” Mr. Alford has 
written to me twice since he has been in Italy, and in each 
letter has desired so earnestly that I should call upon you, 
in case I came to Baltimore, that I had no hesitancy in do- 
ing so. I am a total stranger in this city, and, young and 
inexperienced as I am, will be most grateful for a friend and 
counsellor.” 

‘ ‘ I am certainly very glad that you acted on his advice, * ’ 
said Mr. Hap ton, very much pleased with the youth’s man- 
ner and address. He was surprised, too, as Alford had 
told him that his young friend had always lived in the coun- 
try. But with regard to that, he thought now the young 
man might have been mistaken. ” Have you never lived in 
a city ?” he asked. 

” This is the first time I have ever visited one,” was the 
reply. ” My sister Sylvia and myself have always lived on 
uncle David’s farm, a short distance from Atwell, which is 
a village of but little importance. ’ ’ 

” Sylvia,” said the old gentleman musingly : ” a very 
sweet name ; and your name is Oliver, if I mistake not ?” 

” Yes, sir.” 

” I shall hereafter call you by it ; it will be better than 
Master Maxwell.” 

” I will like it better, sir.* 

” And Sylvia is your twin sister — you see James has told 
me all about you.” 

” Yes, sir.** 

‘ ‘ And very much like you, is she not ?’ * 

“Yes, sir ; though not so much so as when we were chil- 
dren, it is said.** 

” Naturally. You are growing to be a man, she, a 
woman ; and there is more difference between a man and a 
woman than there is between a male and a female child. I 
would like to see your sister Sylvia ; but I suppose it is 
hardly probable that she will come to Baltimore.” 

“Hardly, sir,” said Oliver; and then he added, with 


OLIVER IN BALTIMORE, 


141 

some hesitation and a little blush, “but I have a picture 
of her which I will be glad to show you.“ 

“ Ah !“ said the other. “ What sort of a picture is it — a 
daguerreotype ?“ 

“ Oh no, sir,“ replied the boy, blushing more vividly; 
“ it’s a — a portrait — one that I painted myself.’’ 

“ So you have dabbled in oils already,’’ said the old gen- 
tleman with a smile. “ Well, if you take my advice, you 
will leave them alone yet awhile. I will take much pleasure 
in looking at Sylvia’s portrait, however. Now tell me where 
you are staying.’’ 

Oliver mentioned the name of the hotel at which he had 
stopped the night before. 

“ Ah !’’ said Mr. Hapton, “ a very good house and not 
expensive ; but of course you do not wish to remain there 
permanently — it is too expensive for that,"' 

“ I do not wish to remain there any longer than I can 
help,’’ said Oliver. “ My uncle is not a rich man, and as 
he has been so kind as to allow me to follow my own incli- 
nation and come to Baltimore to pursue my studies, it is but 
right that I should live as economically as possible.’’ 

“ Then you will want cheap board and lodgings with some 
decent family.’’ 

“ Yes, sir.’’ 

“ Well, I think I know of a place that will suit you. The 
man is a tailor, and has a wife and several children. They 
are plain, honest people ; but I know they live decently, 
orderly, and cleanly, and they will furnish you with all you 
want at a very moderate price. Come, we will go and see 
them at once.’’ 

As they walked along, the merchant asked Oliver about 
his parents. 

“ We never saw them, sir,’’ he replied : “ they died when 
we were infants. I have a dim recollection sometimes of 
having seen pictures of them ; but when or where, I have 
no idea. ’ ’ 

“ What sort of pictures ? — portraits, like the one you have 
of your sister ?’’ 

“ Oh no, sir ! The very slight recollection I have of them 
is that they were little pictures.’’ 

“ Ah ! daguerreotypes probably. But does your uncle 
know nothing about such pictures ?’’ 

“ No, sir, I think not — at least he has never mentioned 
it ; and if any such pictures are in existence he would prob- 
ably have them, as my father was his brother.’’ 

“ That’s very true. Your imagination has probably 


142 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


painted the pictures of your dead parents for you — it is but 
natural that it should.’* 

“ Perhaps so,” said Oliver dubiously ; ” but then my sis- 
ter’s imaginings must be the same as mine, for she has the 
same faint recollections that I have.” 

” Yes, that may be so, and still it would prove nothing ; 
for it is a well-known fact that twin-born children often 
have the same thoughts, the same fancies, and even the 
same or like dreams. But here we are.” 

The tailor’s shop was situated in a quiet little by-street, 
and the houses that were in its immediate neighborhood 
were such as are generally inhabited by respectable, but not 
rich, people. 

” Good-morning, Hagget,” said Mr. Hapton, as he en- 
tered, followed by Oliver. 

A little hunchback man, who, squatted upon a table, was 
stitching away at a vest, and humming softly to himself, 
looked up with a smile of evident pleasure at the sound of 
the merchant’s voice. In another instant he had leaped ac- 
tively to the floor and handed his visitor a chair. 

” Good-morning, Mr. Hapton, good-morning,” he said, 
as he looked about to find something for Oliver to sit on, 
” I hope I see you well, sir.” 

” Quite well, I thank you, Hagget ; indeed, I am seldom 
otherwise,” was the reply ; ” and how are your good wife 
and all the little ones ?’ ’ 

” They are hearty, sir, hearty — most too hearty, I might 
say ; for they have such great appetites, that it is quite as 
much as I can do to supply their needs.” 

” That’s well,” said Mr. Hapton, laughing ; ” and don’t 
complain of their appetites, my good friend ; for I assure 
you, that you would find it much harder to pay the doctor 
than the butcher and the baker.” 

” Oh ! I don’t complain, sir,” said the tailor with a smile 
of contentment. ” So long as they will eat I will try to 
furnish the provender. I don’t believe good, wholesome 
food ever hurt anybody yet — it’s the want of it, I expect, 
that’s the cause of most of the misery and sickness in this 
world ; and, as you say, sir, the butcher and baker are 
easier to pay than the doctor. ’ ’ 

” And the business, Hagget ; how is that getting on ?” 

” Oh ! pretty well, sir, pretty well, thanks to you who have 
recommended me to so many good customers — I have much 
to be grateful to you for, Mr. Hapton,” added the speaker 
feelingly ; ” and though my position is loo humble for me 
to hope to be ever able to do any thing to prove how sincere 


OLIVER IN BALTIMORE, 


143 


is my gratitude for all your kindness, I trust you will believe 
me when I tell you that I shall always think of you with 
thankfulness to God that He threw me in the way of so 
good a friend.’' 

“Yes, yes, Hagget,” replied the other rather hurriedly, 
“ certainly I believe you ; but let your gratitude go up to 
Him rather than to me, who am but an instrument in His 
hands. But I came here this morning to see you on a little 
matter of business. This is Master Oliver Maxwell, a 
friend of James Alford, and a young gentleman in whom I 
am interested.” The tailor nodded to Oliver with a pleas- 
ant smile. “ He has come to Baltimore to pursue his stud- 
ies as an artist, and desires to obtain board and lodgings at 
a cheap rate. I thought perhaps you might be able to ac- 
commodate him, and came with him to inquire.” 

“ Ah ! yes, sir,” said Hagget. “ Well, we have a vacant 
room, if it will suit the young gentleman. It is small, but 
very comfortable, and we will do all we can for him if he 
chooses to come and live with us.” 

“ That is all he can desire, surely,” said Mr. Hapton. 
“ Oliver, you can go with Hagget, and he will show you 
the room. I will await you here.” 

Oliver followed his conductor into a room behind the shop 
— it seemed to be the family sitting and dining room — and 
there they found Mrs. Hagget engaged in her domestic 
duties. Strange to say, the tailor’s wife was a hunchback 
like himself, and a queer-looking little couple they were 
when together. They were both small and deformed ; but, 
unlike those generally afflicted in that way, they were good- 
natured, and the happiness and contentment of their dispo- 
sitions was plainly evidenced in the expression of their faces. 

“ Elspeth,” said Hagget, addressing his wife, “ this 
young gentleman, Mr. Oliver Maxwell, came here with Mr. 
Hapton, and wants to board and lodge with us.” 

“ Good-morning, sir,” said Elspeth to Oliver. “ I’m 
sure we will be glad to accommodate you, if every thing 
suits. The only room we have to offer is very small, and I 
will tell you beforehand, we live plainly, and you may 
think poorly when you come to try it.” 

“ I am not very hard to satisfy,” said Oliver, with a smile 
that won the woman’s heart at once, “ and I feel sure that I 
! shall be very well content when I am once settled and at 
work.” 

” Well, I hope you will,” she replied. ” We will promise 
to do all we can to make you so, and ‘ where there’s a will 
there’s a way,’ you know.” 


144 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Yes,'’ said Oliver, “ that’s true enough in most things, 

I believe. Now I will look at the room, if you please,” 
turning to Hagget. ” I mustn’t keep Mr. Hapton waiting 
too long ; he has been very kind in leaving his business to 
come here with me, and I must not return his kindness by a 
thoughtless disregard of the inconvenience to which this 
loss of lime may put him.” 

” You are right, sir, you are right,” said the tailor, as he 
led the way up a narrow staircase, and into a little room at 
the back of the house, ” and here is the room. It is small, 
you see, as I told you ; but you will find it warm and com- 
fortable. ’ ’ 

” It will suit me very well,” said Oliver, looking around, 
and seeing that every thing was neat and clean. Having 
thus expressed himself satisfied, they descended the staircase 
and rejoined Mr. Hapton, who, being informed that the 
room was sufficiently commodious and otherwise suitable, 
an agreement was entered into with Hagget with regard to 
terms, and that afternoon Oliver was duly installed as a 
member of the tailor’s household. 

Acting on Mr. Hapton’s advice, Oliver began his studies 
with Mr. Ashley, as Alford had done before him. He laid 
aside his palette and brushes — with a pang of regret, it is | 
true — and bound himself manfully down to the rules and 
regulations prescribed for beginners. 

The old merchant manifested great interest in the boy, 
who had attracted him from the very first — for what especial 
reason was best known to himself. He invited him to his 
house, and made much of him, and Oliver was delighted to 
have permission to come and go at will, and spent many a 
leisure hour in the picture gallery and conservatory, both 
of which possessed wonderful charms for him. On Sundays 
he had a seat in his old friend’s pew at church, and always 
went home to dine with him after the services were over. 
His life was altogether delightful ; and could that dear sis- 
ter have been there to enjoy it with him, there would have 
been nothing wanting to complete his happiness ; but as she 
was not there, and could not come to him, he endeavored 
to fill up the only blank in his existence by writing long and 
frequent letters to her, in which he told her of all his joys, 
dwelling at the end of each letter on his sorrow that she 
could not share them with him. Her replies were always 
full of love, and hope for the future, and joy in his present 
happiness. 

As Mr. Hapton again expressed a desire to see the picture 
of Sylvia, Oliver carried it with him one evening when he 


OLIVER IN BALTIMORE. 


MS 

went to visit the old gentleman, though he did so with many 
misgivings. The pictures which he had seen had filled him 
with many doubts as to the merits of his own, and he pre- 
sented it with some stammered excuses. 

“ Never mind, my boy,” said the merchant, ” let me see 
it, and then I can judge of its merits for myself.” He 
placed the picture in a good light, and then sat down and 
looked at it for a long time without saying a word, only 
turning his gaze now and then on the young painter. That 
long and silent scrutiny, which showed that there was some- 
thing more than common in its object, was worth far more 
than the flippant criticisms and technical phraseology gen- 
erally resorted to by pretenders to make the uninitiated be- 
lieve that they are possessed of a knowledge in which they 
well know they are entirely lacking. 

Oliver felt that there must be something worthy of note in 
his work to entitle it to so long and earnest an examination, 
and his heart glowed with pleasure. He watched his host 
closely, and saw a soft, sad light come into his eyes, that he 
had often noticed since he knew him, the cause of which 
had been a puzzling mystery to him, for Mr. Hapton’s dis- 
position generally seemed to be a cheerful one. 

” Ah !” said the old man at last, with a little sigh, ” it is 
good, and the likeness to yourself is striking. But this can- 
not be your first effort.” 

” No, sir,” replied Oliver, ” not exactly the first ; but the 
only thing I have thought worth keeping.*' 

” It is indeed worth keeping, * ’ said the other ; ‘ ‘ and I 
think I can assure you of one thing — that whatever you may 
do in the future, you will always prize this, the merits of 
which you will understand better when you know more of 
your art. ’ ’ 

The picture was a simple portrait — full of faults, as a 
matter of course — in which the salient features of the origi- 
nal were rather softened than otherwise, which, if a fault at 
all, is certainly more endurable than that common to many 
portrait painters, who are in the habit of exaggerating pecu- 
liar characterstics for the sake of likeness, and thus not un- 
frequently bring their art down to the level of caricature. 

Although faulty in drawing, there was a charming grace 
in the attitude of the beautiful girl, as, with her head in- 
clined a little to one side, she arranged a bouquet of flowers, 
her delicate fingers handling their frail stems with gentle 
tenderness, and her soft hazel eyes contemplating them lov- 
ingly. But that was not all that struck the keen observation 
of the connoisseur. A general want of unity in color 


146 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


there certainly was — that wonderful unity few have ever 
mastered — but though it was lacking in Oliver’s picture, 
there were delicate tints and subtile tones, which proved that 
the young artist was possessed of that rarest of all the gifts 
of genius — a true feeling for color. 

Visions of future fame kept Oliver awake that night long 
after every one else was wrapt in slumber, and he fell asleep 
at last to dream of a wonderful picture that he had painted, 
in which Sylvia was the central figure. 


CHAPTER XV. 

SCHNEIDERFEST. 

Oliver spent most of his time when at home in his own 
room, resuming the studies which he had laid aside when he 
left school, to which he added the study of the French and 
Italian languages ; for he had fully possessed himself of the 
idea that he would some day visit Europe. He did not see 
much of Hagget’s family except at meal times. They were 
always kind and attentive to his wants, and he showed his 
appreciation of their watchful care for his comfort by ap- 
pearing invariably cheerful and affable when in their com- 
pany ; so that, although there could not be any sympathy 
between him and them, he soon became a great favorite. 

One evening at tea Hagget told his boarder that the day 
following would be the anniversary of his marriage, on 
which occasion he usually gave a little entertainment to a 
few of his friends, and that both he and his wife would feel 
honored if they might count him among the number. Of 
course Oliver accepted the invitation readily, and did his 
best to make himself agreeable on the occasion. 

There were only about a dozer persons present at the fes- 
tival, all being members of the craft, with their wives. 
The most distinguished individuals were Meinherr Stechen- 
stark, foreman of the great clothing establishment of Tape, 
Bodkins & Co., and Monsieur Lamode, Artiste Tailleur,, de 
Paris, The latter learning that Oliver was an artist, soon 
entered into an argument with him respecting the relative 
merits of their respective arts. 

“ In Paris, Monsieur,” said he, ” vich. you know, ees de 
sheaf citee in de vorld, de tailleur take de rank vid de 
artiste — -pour cette raison : he make de man to look better 
dan de na,ture make him. Par exemple : de man he have 


SCHNEIDERFEST. 


147 


not de leg straight, but so — or so'* (crooking his arms in 
vaious directions by way of illustration) ; “ den by grand 
mystere of he art he make dem ahortif leg to look like de 
veree han’som* straight leg — eh, monsieur ! you onderstan* ? 
Den again : de man he have not de fine figure, but he have 
one vaist like de ox — large — orglee ; de tailleur geeve him 
de waist. like vun — vat you call him? — von bee — no, no, 
parbleu / — von vasp ; delicate — gracieux. Ah, monsieur / 
ven de man he dress in de clothes make for him by vun 
artiste tailleur he look like vun grand Apollo^ onlee he look 
mosh more respectable — eh, monsieur ! Ah, mon Dieu ! ven 
you see dat man on de boulevard^ dress in all he fine clothes, 
you tink him very fine, han’som’ man. Aha ! you no know 
how he ees make. Ta, ta ; de tailleur know dough — he 
know how mosh ees de man and how mosh ees de clothes." 

Oliver laughed, and asked the little Frenchman if he 
really thought a man ought to have a waist like a wasp. 

" Certainement^ monsieur^ certainement^"' replied the tailor. 
" De man should be shape like de hour-glass. Look at de 
officiers fran^ais — how gracieux, how eUgajit ! But you 
nevare have seen him. Ah, monsieur ! you have someting 
to live for." 

Oliver gave in after this unanswerable argument ; but 
wondered how it was that the votaries of fashion, who pro- 
fess to consider the Apollo Belvidere the ideal perfection of 
manly beauty, persisted in moulding their own forms on 
entirely different principles to those illustrated by that mag- 
nificent statue. The Frenchman was about to continue his 
argument in favor of his peculiar theory, when he was 
brought to a halt by Meinherr Stechenstark, who arose to 
propose a toast. 

" Mein freunds^"' said the German, taking his pipe out of 
his mouth, " I gits oop yere to trink de 'ealtz of our ’ost 
an* 'is vife. I vishes dem many redurns of dis tay, an' I 
'opes you allsh vill do de shame. I 'ash knowed many a 
man dat vas vorse, an' mebbe zome ash vas besser ; but dat 
ish needer zere nor yonter : vat a zhall zay ish, I trinks dere 
'ealtz." 

Immediately there was a great clinking of glasses, and 
swallowing of wine and punch, and then Hagget arose to re- 
spond. 

" Good friends," he said, " I thank you heartily for your 
kind wishes, and that is all that I can say. ' ' 

" Bray VO — brayvo — hurrah — brayvo !" shouted his guests; 
and the little Haggets, who had been wonderfully quiet 
heretofore — owing probably to their having been too busy 


148 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Stuffing themselves to be otherwise — screamed with delight 
when the noise began. 

“ But/* continued the little tailor, when order was re- 
stored, “ I have a health to propose.** 

“ Bray VO — brayvo !’* shouted the guests again, and “ Hoo- 
ray, hoorray !** screeched the juveniles, who were nowin 
their element. 

“ I would like you all,** said Hagget, as soon as he could 
get a hearing, “ to drink the success of the young gentle- 
man artist who has done us the honor to be present this 
evening.’* 

“ Brayvo — brayvo — hoorray — bon, tre bien — hoorray — 
bon — brayvo !” was the chorus ; and the toast was drunk in 
a bumper, when Oliver got up and returned his thanks with 
boyish timidity. 

“ And now, my kind friends,” said Hagget, when quiet 
was once more restored, ‘ ‘ if you are inclined to listen to it, 
I will tell you the story of my life.’* 

” Go ahead, go ahead ; let’s have it,” shouted the others. 

” Before beginning, I will candidly tell you that I fear 
you may not find my story interesting ; but as we have all 
met in this room once a year for several years past to com- 
memorate an occasion with the somewhat peculiar circum- 
stances of which you are all ignorant, I think it but right 
that you should be made acquainted with them.” 

” Brayvo — brayvo — tre bien — go ahead !” 

Thus encouraged, Hagget looked at his wife — who re- 
turned the look with a pleasant smile — and then proceeded 
with 

HIS STORY. 

” Where I was born I don’t know. The first distinct recol- 
lection I have of myself, is, that I was sitting on the edge of 
a ditch lamenting that I had ever come into the world at all, 
and wishing myself well out of it. Not far from me, lying 
in the shade of a blackberry bush was a woman who pro- 
fessed to be my mother. Whether she was or not I don’t 
know ; but I have never believed it. She was in a beastly 
state of intoxication, and the bottle which she had emptied 
lay beside her. 

“This woman had always treated me very cruelly, and I 
looked at the bottle and then at her head ; with a vague 
kind of longing to be rid of her tyranny ; not that I had any 
homicidal idea of bringing the two in contact with that ob- 
ject in view, but rather calculating how long the one would 
hold out against the other. 


SCHNEIDERFEST. 


149 


“ After awhile, as if my close attention had had some dis- 
turbing influence on her, she awoke. 

“ ‘ Hello there, Hunch, hello ! where's that imp Hunch ? ' 
she called, her eyes, blurred with drink, being unable to dis- 
tinguish me from the surrounding objects. She always 
called me Hunch in derision, and when I heard the name to 
which I was accustomed to answer, I went close to her and 
asked what she wanted. 

“ ‘ Aha ! there you are, my beauty,' she said. ‘ Why 
didn’t you come quicker, you crooked devil ? ' 

“ ‘ I came as soon as I was called,' I answered humbly. 

“ ‘ You lie, you cub of Satan !’ she cried. ‘ But no mat- 
ter now ; take that bottle to the village yonder, and get it 
filled. You may thank your stars that I don’t feel like get- 
tin’ up to baste you. Make haste, now, or I’ll get my claws 
into yer hide when you come back.' 

*“ This was always her way. She always tramped about 
the country, but never entered the villages and towns her- 
self — well knowing that her bloated and disgusting appear- 
ance would prevent her obtaining charity — but sent me, 
who being a poor, miserable little object to look upon, 
seldom went far without exciting compassion, and elic- 
iting donations of money, clothing, or food. These it 
was my business to trade for liquor — with the exception 
of the food, which, of course, we could not altogether do 
without. 

“ I had several times attempted to run away ; but each 
time she had succeeded in recapturing me, and the only re- 
sult of my escapades had been an increase in my wretched- 
ness, so that for a long time I had given up all hopes of ob- 
taining my freedom. That day, however, as I walked to- 
wards the village, which was about a mile distant, I felt a 
sudden impulse of determination come over me, and I had 
no sooner got behind a hill, which completely hid me from 
her view, than I threw that accursed bottle as far as I could 
send it, and took to my heels. 

‘ ‘ I did not go to the village close by, but ran past it, and 
on, on through the fields. How far I ran I cannot tell ; 
but I did not stop until I was almost out of breath, when I 
slackened my pace from sheer inability to keep on at such a 
rate of speed, first looking behind me, however, to see if my 
tormentor were not in pursuit. I had left her, it is true, in 
a condition which any reasonable person might know would 
preclude the possibility of her following me ; but somehow 
I couldn’t get over the idea that she could catch me in spite 
of every thing. 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


ISO 

I walked along as fast as I was able, looking around me 
carefully as I went, for fear that I had only been running 
around a circle to come back to the place from whence I 
started, as I had done once or twice before in my efforts to 
escape from bondage ; and just about nightfall I came in 
sight of a cluster of houses almost hidden among the trees. 
Had it been a little darker I should not have noticed them 
at all. I examined them carefully, to be sure it was not 
the village I had really left behind me, and then turned my 
steps in their direction, hoping to find shelter for the night 
in some barn or outhouse. 

“ I didn’t find such a place as 1 was in search of, which I 
thought it safe to enter, and, worn out and despondent, was 
passing through the only street that the place could boast, 
intending to sleep in some field, under the shelter of a hay- 
cock or tree, when happening to look into a little tailor- 
shop, I saw that there was no one in it at the moment. A 
sudden resolution seized me. I knew that under the 
benches or counters of tailors there was always a warm nest 
of rags and list, where one might sleep comfortably ; so I 
crept in, and before anybody came to detect me, was snugly 
stowed away for the night. 

“ I must have slept soundly, for I didn’t awake until I 
felt myself pulled out of my hiding-place by the legs. 
When I got upon my feet, trembling all over with fright, my 
first thought was that I was once more overtaken by my in- 
exorable fate. I was somewhat reassured, however, when I 
saw before me a benevolent-looking old man, with a huge 
pair of spectacles on his nose, who. regarded me with the 
utmost astonishment. 

“ ‘ Goodness gracious ! * he said, raising his hands and 
drawing a long breath, ‘here I’ve been sleeping all night 
without an idea of danger, while my life and property have 
been at the mercy of a desperado — a buT:glar. ’ 

“ ‘ No — no — sir,’ I stammered, horrified at being consid- 
ered so dangerous a character — though I had no idea what a 
desperado was — ‘ indeed — indeed — I — I — ’ 

“ ‘ Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘ I know better ; don’t tell me 
you’re not a burglar. What are you doing hid away under 
my counter, then ? Tell me that ?” 

“ I was shaking by this time as though I had an ague, which 
the old man perceiving, he seized me by the collar and 
dragged me into a back room. There he pushed me into a 
chair, which was placed so near the fire that I thought I 
should be roasted — the weather not being cold, and the fire 
being more for the purpose of cooking my captor’s break- 


SCHNEIDERFEST, 1 5 1 

fast, than for the sake of warmth. I suppose he thought I 
was cold, whereas I was simply scared. 

“ Leaving me to my fate — I was too timid to move — ^he 
went to a cupboard, and taking from it a long-necked bot- 
tle, mixed a strong, hot drink, which he proceeded to pour 
down my throat, catching me by the nose, and holding my 
mouth open, as mothers do fractious children when they 
give them physic. 

“ ‘ There/ he said ; ‘ take that.’ After looking at me in- 
tently for a few minutes, he added, ‘ Now don’t you feel 
better, you young reprobate 1 ’ 

“ ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, wondering what a reprobate was, 
and coming to the conclusion that it must be some milder 
kind of desperado. 

“ ‘ And do you mean to tell me you are not a thief — a 
burglar, who got in here last night to rob me — and would 
have done it, too, if you hadn’t gone to sleep ? ’ asked the 
old man, looking at me so severely that I went off into an 
ague again. ‘ Don’t do that,’ he cried, when he saw me 
begin to tremble, ‘ don’t do that,’ and he pushed me still 
closer to the fire ; ‘ you may not be a thief, but you look like 
one. Why, look at your clothes, and see how dirty you are. 
You must know you look like a thief.’ 

“ ‘ I know I may look like a thief, sir,’ I replied, getting 
sufficient control of myself to make some defence against 
the charge ; ‘ but indeed I’m not, indeed I’m not. I’m 
only a poor boy, sir, who wanted some place to sleep. I 
never stole any thing in my life, though she often tried to 
make me, and beat me because I wouldn’t.’ 

“ I told him this in broken sentences, mingled with sobs, 
while the tears streamed down my cheeks, and a look of 
the most intense compassion came into the old man’s face. 

“ ‘ There, there/ he said, the sympathetic drops standing 
in his own eyes, while he soothingly patted me on the head, 

‘ there, there, I believe you, my child. Dry up your tears, 
and forgive the old man for being hard on you. Ah ! this is 
a hard world, a hard world ; but I never thought I should 
ever be as cruel as this. And now I come to look at you, ’ 
he added, after examining me closely from head to foot, 

‘ you don’t appear to be such a desperate fellow after all. 
But who is she ? who is she ? Come, tell me all about it. ’ 

“ I gave him the simple history of my unhappy life, to 
which he listened attentively, taking his great spectacles off 
now and then to wipe his eyes. 

“ ‘ Ah,, ah, ah !’ he said, when I had finished my misera- 
ble story, ‘ poor child, poor child. And so you are afraid 


152 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


she will find you again. But she shan’t do it. I promise 
you she shan’t.’ 

“ He then commenced looking about for some place in 
which to conceal me ; and the cupboard striking him as the 
most feasible, he pushed me into it ; but it was very small, 
and already well filled, and when he attempted to shut the 
door, I was nigh being crushed to death. I then suggested 
that it would be rather inconvenient to live in such a place 
for any length of time, and that my persecutor would not be 
likely to come into his shop to look for me, so I might stay 
in the room where we then were without danger of discovery. 

“ ‘ To be sure, to be sure,’ he said ; ‘I never thought of 
that. She’ll not come here ; but if she should, I can drive 
her out with a hot goose. There are not many people who 
will face a hot goose in the hands of a determined man. 
But, gracious me ! ’ he exclaimed, another thought with 
regard to my welfare suddenly coming into his head, 

‘ you’ve had nothing to eat, my poor little chap.’ 

“ With that he went to work to prepare breakfast — a very 
simple and frugal meal with him, but better than I had 
been accustomed to, and which I ate with relish and thank- 
fulness. 

“Thus I became domesticated with this kind-hearted old 
man. It was a long time before I ventured outside of the 
shop door, keeping, most of the time, in the back room, and 
rendering such assistance as I was able, by ripping up bad 
work or old clothes, and folding goods ; but after awhile I 
took courage to go out, and then I added the duties of 
errand boy to my other occupations. 

“ In these employments I continued until I was old 
enough to learn the trade, when Mr. Shortstitch, my friend 
and master, put me on the bench, and between his instruc- 
tion and my own perseverance, it was not long before I be- 
came a pretty good tailor. 

“ I lived with my old friend — perfectly contented with 
my lot in life, but rather retiring in my disposition, owing 
to my unfortunate deformity — until he died. I was greatly 
afflicted by his death, for he was the first and only friend I 
had ever had, and almost broken-hearted, followed him to 
the grave. No one who has not lost the only friend they 
had in the world can understand what I felt when I returned, 
solitary and alone, to the home which he had allowed me to 
share with him. 

“ He left a will, in which he bequeathed to me the resi- 
due of his worldly goods — after all his creditors had been 
satisfied. But the good old man had left me a richer legacy 


SCHNEIDERFEST, 


153 


than that. He had taught me to read and write, and had 
initiated me in the mysteries of arithmetic ; and I have since 
found that the trouble he thus voluntarily took upon himself 
in his leisure hours was of more real service to me than 
would have been his whole stock of worldly goods untram- 
melled by debt. 

“ I was left now to seek my own fortune ; but being a 
man in years, and a skilful plier of the needle, I had no 
fears for the future. I turned what my friend had be- 
queathed me into cash, and packing up my clothes and the 
implements of my trade, went forth to seek change of scene ; 
for I couldn’t bear to remain in the old place alone. 

“ I travelled on foot, stopping at roadside taverns, and 
being temperate in my habits, managed to make enough to 
pay my expenses without having to touch the sum I had in 
my wallet. 

One day I stopped at a tavern and asked for a drink of 
water, which the landlord gave me with a very bad grace. 
He probably didn’t like to furnish any thing for which he 
couldn’t expect pay. The bar was full of boisterous 
men, who were drinking and swearing at a fearful rate — 
there had been a horse-race or something of the sort in the 
neighborhood — and I made haste to swallow the water in 
order, if possible, to get away uhobserved by any of the 
company. I was not so fortunate, however ; for just as I 
put the glass down, two rough, half-drunken fellows stepped 
up, and one of them slapping me rudely on the back, said, 

* Hello, my little dromedary ! drinking all alone. Now 
that’ll never do. That’s what I calls selfish ; ain’t it. Bill ? ’ 
turning to his companion, who said, ‘ I should say it was.' 

‘‘ ‘ Come,’ said the first speaker, you might ask a friend 
— or mebbe two,’ winking at the other man, to chink 
glasses with yer.’ 

“ ‘ I was only taking a glass of water, sir,’ I replied. ‘ I 
was thirsty, having walked far to-day. If I drank any thing 
stronger, I’m sure I would be glad of your company.’ 

“ ‘ Now that’s spoken like a man,’ said the fellow ; ‘ ain’t 
it. Bill? But, as the poet says, “ It’s never too late to 
mend.” What poet was it, Bill ? ’ 

” ‘ I don’t know nothin’ ’bout sich swells,’ said Bill 
gruffly. 

” ‘ Well, it makes no kind a dif’rence who the chap was,’ 
said the other ; ‘ it’s time our friend here was learnin’ to 
drink some’ at better than the limpid stream. I’ll take 
whiskey straight ; what’ll you have. Bill ? But mayhap you 
have objections to drinkin’ with a stranger, so let me intro- 


154 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


duce you. This is my friend Mr. William Maulem, Mr. — - 
Mr. — well, Camel — that’ll do as well as any other. Now I 
s’pose you’ve no objections to drinkin’ with us — your scru- 
ples of delicacy is removed, sir.’ 

“ ‘ I’ve no kind of objections to drinkin’ with ’m,’ said 
Mr. William Maulem, ‘ perwided he pays the shot.’ 

“ I thought it best to pay for their drinks, although I 
took nothing myself, and did so. They swallowed the 
liquor without more ado, the more loquacious ot the two 
expressing his regret, as he nodded at me over his glass, that 
I wouldn’t join them. The other took his dram at a gulp, 
without saying a word, and I left them standing at the bar, 
congratulating myself on having gotten off so easily. 

Happening to look behind me when I had gone a short 
distance, I saw one of my new acquaintances apparently 
watching me : and as he slunk back into the house when I 
turned my head, a vague suspicion arose in my mind as to 
his object in doing so. It was late in the afternoon, and I 
hastened my steps, hoping to reach the place where I in- 
tended to rest for the night before it was quite dark. With 
all my efforts, however, I was yet a considerable distance 
from the desired haven, when night overtook me, and I be- 
came quite nervous, as I hurried along, looking around at 
every little noise I heard. * 

“ I was hurrrying along as fast as I could, sometimes 
breaking into a little run, when I saw an object glide from 
behind the bushes in front of me, and the blood seemed to 
freeze in my veins, while my heart almost stopped beating. 

I was awfully frightened, and my first impulse was to turn 
and fly ; but my legs appeared to be suddenly paralyzed, 
and while I stood there, unable to move, a voice addressed 
me that I recognized at once. 

‘ Aha, my little dromedary !’ said my talkative frierid of 
the tavern, ‘ you are there, are you ? I thought you might 
like company on the road, it’s such a lonely one, you know, 
so I took a short cut across the fields, and here I am, you 
see. ’ ■ # 

“ ‘You are very kind, sir,’ I said, trying to speak with 
composure. ‘ It is a lonely road, as you say ; but you have 
put yourself to a great deal of trouble for a poor tailor, who 
has no means of rewarding you. ’ 

“ ‘ Trouble ! pshaw ! no trouble at all, my boy,’ he re- 
plied. ‘ Kindness brings its own reward, as the poet says — • 

I forget which one — and when a feller does a kindness, he 
shouldn’t begin to calc’late about the reward beforehand.’ 

“ ‘ Come, Jack,’ said the other man, who stood close be- 


SCHNEIDERFEST. 


ISS 


side me, though I had not seen him ; ‘ let^s to bis'ness ; 
'tain’t no time for parlance, an’ you’re too fond of yer gab 
anyhow — it’ll get yer neck stretched some day, see if it 
don’t.’ 

“ ‘ Aha ! and you’re there, too, William,’ said Jack, pre- 
tending not to have been aware of his presence before. 
‘ Now, I say, this is pleasant : so kind of you to walk this 
lonesome road with our little friend here, and so lucky that 
I fell in with you ; ain’t it, now ? ’ 

“ ‘ Shut up,’ replied the other fellow gruffly ; ‘ shut up, 
an’ be d — d to you. Let’s do what we’ve come to do, an’ 
be done with it.’ With that he seized me by the -arms 
and held me tight, while his companion commenced to go 
through my pockets. 

“ I had known from the first that I was going to be 
robbed, and knew besides that resistance on my part would 
be useless, yet I struggled and screamed with all my might. 
Fortunately my wallet containing my little capital was 
secured by a strong leather belt next my skin, and they were 
some time in finding it. They had thrown me on the 
ground and thrust a handkerchief in my mouth, and were 
busy trying to unfasten the belt, when I heard the thud of a 
heavy blow, and one of my assailants fell to the ground be- 
side me, while the other leaped to his feet and fled away 
through the darkness. 

“ ‘ Are you much hurt ?’ asked a deep-toned but kindly 
voice, and a soft hand was passed over my brow. 

“ ‘ I’m not hurt at all,’ I replied, as soon as I could get 
the handkerchief out of my mouth, and rising to my feet, 

‘ but I might have been killed had you not come to my as- 
sistance. You have done me a great service, sir.’ 

“ ‘ Tut,’ said the stranger, who had a little girl with him, 

‘ you would have done the same for me in a like case. But 
I don’t think they intended to murder you, for if they had, 
they would have done it before attempting to rob you. You 
had better see if the fellow who escaped didn’t get off with 
yohr money, after all. ’ 

‘ No,’ I replied, having felt for my wallet, and found it 
all right ; ‘ what little I possess is here safe enough ; and I 
thank you for having saved it to me, little as it is.’ 

No thanks are needed for that ; I would have done 
the same for any human being in such a strait. But what 
shall we do with this scoundrel ? He shows no signs of com- 
ing to his senses.’ 

“ ‘ I will go on to the village, I replied, ‘ and bring 
goine assistance, if you will await my return. ’ 


AFTEI^ MANY YEARS. 


^ 5 ^ 

“ ‘ I can do better than that,’ said the stranger. ‘ I and 
my daughter here are going to the house of a friend who 
lives a little distance off the high road. 1 will carry this fel- 
low there, and I know enough about broken heads to patch 
up his, I expect. I will detain him a prisoner, if you wish 
to prefer charges against him ; but if you do not care about 
prosecuting — and there is no telling how long it may detain 
you, the way justice is meted out in this country, where 
every rascal’s vote is considered worth conciliating — I’ll 
give hitn a good drubbing and let him go. What say you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ I replied, ' under the circumstances, I think it 
would be better to pursue the latter course. I could ill 
afford to lose the time or bear the expense that would be in- 
curred by having him brought to trial, and he can’t live long 
after his present fashion without being brought to justice — 
in spite of that valuable vote of his, ’ I added, laughing. 

“ ‘ Very well,’ he said, ‘ just as you please ; and I think 
you take the wisest course.’ 

“ With these words he shouldered the prostrate highway- 
man with the greatest ease, and bidding me good-night, 
turned to go. 1 returned his salutation, and as I extended 
the same civility to the girl, who had not uttered a single 
word during the whole time, I perceived that, like myself, 
she was deformed. 

“ A year or more had elapsed after this occurrence, when 
one day, as I was passing a ruinous shed, 1 thought 1 heard 
low sobs and moans inside of it. I stopped to listen, and 
was convinced that there was some person there in distress. 
I stepped softly to the door, and, looking in, beheld a 
young girl weeping over the prostrate form of a man. The 
latter was evidently dying ; and the light was fast fading 
from the eyes that looked up into hers as he lay with his 
head pillowed on her lap, while she, with her hands clasped, 
gazed upon his pallid face, the tears streaming over her 
cheeks in a flood of bitterness. I hesitated before intruding 
upon such a scene. 

‘‘ ‘ O father, father ! ’ she cried, ' how can I live in this 
cruel world without you ? Oh that God in His mercy would 
take rne too ! You have been my only friend, my only com- 
panion in this life — a life of misery for your poor child, you 
have often said ; but I have never found it so till now. I 
have always been happy with you : your love was all I asked, 
all I desired ; and it has always been mine — all mine. O 
my God, my God ! now I shall be alone — all alone, and 
this will be a life of misery indeed ! ’ 

‘ Hush, hush, my child ! ’ said the man solemnly ; and 


SCHNEIDERFEST, 


157 


I thought I recognized the deep-toned, mellow voice, even 
in its dying accents ; ‘ complain not at God’s decrees. He 
will be a friend to you when I am gone. I have been poor 
— poor from my earliest recollection ; but I have never lost 
faith in Him, and I have never yet known a day that did 
not have its moments of joy. With the upright in heart, that 
which satisfies the absolute necessities of nature is all that 
he wants of the material after all. He that can look upon 
the boundless beauties of His creation, with the pure 
thought of an untainted conscience, wants no other pleas- 
ures than those which the Creator bestows for the mere 
seeking. That God who has carried me through life con- 
tented with a lot which many would call miserable will 
guide and protect you. I leave you, my child to Him.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Yes, yes, dear father,’ replied the afflicted girl, ‘ I 
know that God is the Father of the poor and fatherless ; but 
we poor children of earth need human sympathy, and when 
the harsh, unfeeling world scoffs at the friendless hunch- 
back, who, who, like you, will take me to his bosom, to 
soothe and comfort me with words of love ’ 

“ Until then I had not noticed that the girl was deformed ; 
but when I did, I knew that the man was the same who had 
rescued me from the highwaymen, and felt that the 
Almighty had led me there that day that I might repay the 
debt of gratitude that I owed him. 

“ With a sudden impulse I hastened to the spot where the 
man lay, and answering the affecting words just spoken, ex- 
claimed, * I will, I will, with God’s help ! ’ Grasping the 
father’s hand — the same soft hand I had felt on my brow 
that memorable night ; but oh ! so thin now — so thin — I 
continued : ‘ The child of him to whom I owe so much shall 
never need a friend and protector while I live. ’ 

‘‘ He opened his eyes, which had closed wearily when he 
finished speaking to his daughter a few minutes before, and 
looked at me with a faint smile of recognition and a gentle 
pressure of the hand. ‘ God is merciful, ’ he murmured. 
‘ His will be done. ’ 

“ Those were the last words he spoke, and in a few min- 
utes, with a short gasp, he ceased to breathe. 

‘ ‘ His daughter, as soon as she perceived what had hap- 
pened, uttered a heart-rending cry, and fell upon the body. 
For a time I thought her prayer had been heard, and that 
her spirit had flown with his to its eternal home ; but a stifled 
sob — the sign of returning animation — roused me to ac- 
tion ; and getting some water from a brook near by, I soon 
restored her to life and the consciousness of the great mis- 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


158 

fortune that had befallen her. Allowing her to give full 
vent to her grief without interference on my part, knowing 
that it would all the sooner exhaust itself in that way, I 
waited patiently until she became in a measure composed, 
and then went in search of assistance. 

“ Having found a good clergyman who lived in the neigh- 
borhood, I explained to him the nature of my errand, and 
he immediately returned to the hovel with me, hurrying 
along so rapidly in his anxiety to assist and comfort the un- 
fortunate, that I found it difficult to keep up with him. I 
left him to do what he could for the sorrow-stricken wan- 
derer, and proceeded to make preparations for the burial of 
the dead, which I arranged to take place the next day. 

When the last sod was thrown upon the mortal remains 
of Eppes — such, the girl told us, washer father’s name — and 
w^e were about to leave the churchyard, I approached the 
orphan and asked if she had understood and was willing to 
accept the offer I had made of friendship and protection. 
She looked up through her tears in a surprised way, as if to 
ask for an explanation, which I gave as delicately as I 
could. 

“ A short silence ensued, and then she took my hand. 

‘ Yes, yes, dear father,’ she said, looking towards the newly- 
made grave, ‘ you were right : God has raised me up a 
friend — even from your very ashes. Yes, I will go with 
you, my friend, ’ she added, turning to me ; ‘ but whither 
shall we go ^ ’ 

“ ‘ First,’ I replied, ‘ we will go to the church.’ 

“ ‘To the church?’ she said, with a look of wonder. 
‘ What shall we do there ? — pray ? Ah, yes ! let us go there 
and pray — it is good to pray.’ 

“ ‘ We must go there to be married,’ I replied ; ‘ but we 
will pray, too, if you like.’ 

“ ‘ Married ! married ! ’ she cried, and a strange gleam 
of mockery shone out through her tears, which had not yet 
ceased to flow. ‘ We two hunchbacks get married ! Why, 
my friend, we would be the laughingstock of all the peo- 
ple ! ’ 

“ ‘ No one will laugh at you in your affliction,’ I replied, 

‘ nor yet at me for my sympathy ; and, you know, we can- 
not travel and live together unless we be married. ’ 

“ ‘ True, true,’ she murmured thoughtfully. ‘ They are 
a kindly people ; and better the scoffs and jeers of the 
thoughtless and vicious, than the deserved censure of the 
good. It is soon after his death, and according to the opin- 


SCHJSTEIDERFEST, 


159 


ion of the world, a wrong to his memory ; but, alas, dear 
father ! ’ she exclaimed, turning once more towards his 
grave, ‘ what else is there left for me ? This is the friend 
that God has given me. I cannot let him depart from me.* 
She took my arm, and silently we walked into the 
church, where the clergyman had retired to divest himself 
of his robes. I explained our wishes to him, and in a few 
hours — as soon as we could procure a license — we were 
made man and wife ; and I think I can assure you, my 
good friends, that neither of us has ever had occasion to 
repent at leisure our hasty marriage. * * 

With a glass brimming full, the little tailor looked at his 
wife, whose eyes, though filled with tears at the sad recol- 
lections revived by the story, beamed with the light of hap- 
piness ; and the whole company rising, with one accord, 
drank a bumper to her. 

“ And now,*’ said Hagget, when all were once more 
seated, “ with your good pleasures, I will finish my story.** 

“Good, good — go on — bon, bon — brayvo — hurrah!** 
shouted the audience. 

“ Elspeth and I — I didn’t even know her name until she 
told it to the clergyman before the altar — began the voyage 
of life together as I have just related, and how we came, 
after knocking about for a time with pretty rough weather 
for the most part, to anchor in this comfortable harbor at 
last, it will not take long to tell you. 

“ The first thing I did was to order a plain tombstone for 
my dead father-in-law. From my wife I learned that Eppes 
was an Englishman, and had been an actor, in which profes- 
sion he had earned a good living until he became a profes- 
sor of religion, when he quit it, deeming the connection in- 
compatible with Christian morality ; after which he gradually 
sunk into abject poverty, being unfitted for any other em- 
ployment, and took to wandering about the country in 
search of work, by which means he managed to make just 
enough to support life, and died, as I have told you, in a 
hovel without a friend, one of the many silent martyrs of 
these latter days. 

“ I left money enough to pay for the tombstone with the 
good clergyman, and then commenced to make regular 
rounds through a certain section of the country where I had 
always got plenty of work to do, and the inhabitants of 
which knew me and treated me hospitably and kindly. 

“ The children, and sometimes malicious men — never a 


l6o AFTER MANY YEARS. 

woman, God bless them ! — ^could not resist the temptation to 
jeer at the pair of hunchbacks ; but children are thoughtless 
creatures, and do not understand the pain they often inflict. 
A little kindness shown when occasion offered — a cut foot 
soothed and dressed, a timely intercession to save an urchin 
from threatened punishment, or some like act on the part of 
my wife or myself — soon made them ashamed of them- 
selves, and won for us their friendship far and wide, and 
made our tramping life as pleasant as was possible under 
such circumstances. 

“But this sort of existence couldn’t last for very long. 
The care of two children of our own at last made it a 
labor that my wife couldn’t endure, and as she refused to be 
separated from me, even for a week at a time, I deter- 
mined to settle in some city, and this is the place that I 
chose. 

“ I found it uphill work, however, where I was sur- 
rounded by so many competitors. All my little hoarded 
capital was at last exhausted, and such articles as we had 
been obliged to purchase when we settled down were either 
sold or pawned, and then starvation seemed to stare us in 
the face. 

“ But God did not desert us. In the hour of despair He 
sent us a friend. Mr. Hapton, whom you have all heard of, 
I know, discovered our wretched condition — he seems in- 
deed always to find out where there is distress and sorrow — 
and relieved our immediate wants. He then took the 
trouble to make some inquiries about me, and being satisfied 
with what he heard, started me in this little business, which, 
through his influence, has proved successful.’’ 

“ Bray VO ! Hurrah for Mr. Hapton !’’ shouted one of 
the guests. 

“ Yes,” said Hagget, rising, and holding a glass of punch 
before him, “ yes, hurrah for Mr. Hapton, the friend of the 
poor man ! We will drink long life and happiness to him.” 

The toast was drunk with many ‘ ‘ bray vos, ’ ’ and then a 
song was called for, when a good-looking young tailor re- 
sponded with 

‘‘the tailor* s view of it.** 

“ Oh come, my jolly tailor men ! 

And let us drink a toast : 

We do not wish to seem too vain, 

Now do we care to boast ; 

But certain ’tis that ours is 
The art that man needs most. 


SCHNEIDERFES T. 


i6i 


Merrily, merrily, merrily sings 
The kettle on the hob ; 

Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily rings 
The glass when we hobnob. 
Hob-nob, Bob, 

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack ; 

Hobnob, Bob ; 

Potheen is better than sack. 

“ How man would fare without our craft, 

Td like some one to tell ; 

We’ve been his best friends ever since 
He came to town to dwell ; 

Threw off his rustic garb, and thought 
He’d be a ‘stunnin’ swell.’ 

Merrily, merrily, merrily sings 
The kettle on the hob ; 

Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily rings 
The glass when we hobnob. 

Hobnob, Bob, 

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack ; 

Hobnob, Bob ; 

Potheen is better than sack. 

** How he would look without our aid, 

Just fancy, if you can : 

He wouldn’t do, now that is plain. 

However fine a man ; 

He knows it, too, and yet he turns 
His nose up at our clan. 

Merrily, merrily, merrily sings 
The kettle on the hob ; 

Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily rings 
The glass when we hobnob. 

Hobnob Bob, 

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack ; 

Hobnob Bob ; 

Potheen is better than sack. 

“ And pray what would those scarecrows do. 
Those crooked little elves. 

Who, dressed up in the clothes we make. 
Think so much of themselves ? 

Aha ! methinks the world would laugh 
To see their very selves. 

Merrily, merrily, merrily sings 
The kettle on the hob ; 

Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily rings 
The glass when we hobnob. 

Hobnob, Bob. 

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack ; 

Hobnob, Bob ; 

Potheen is better than sack. 

** They come to us to hide their limbs. 

And ’scape their fellows’ jeers ; 

We cut and slash, and work away 
With needle, goose, and shears, 


162 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


And in a twinkling from our hands 
A decent man appears. 

Merrily, merrily, merrily sings 
The kettle on the hob ; 

Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily rings 
The glass when we hobnob. 

Hobnob, Bob, 

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack ; 

Hobnob, Bob ; 

Potheen is better than sack. 

“ Nine of our craft, they say, it takes 
To make a proper man : 

Now that’s a fact, and hard it is 
To make him, even then ; 

And some will not be made at all, 

Let us try all we can. 

Merrily, merrily, merrily sings 
The kettle on the hob ; 

Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily rings 
The glass when we hobnob ; 

Hobnob, Bob, 

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack ; 

Hobnob, Bob ; 

Potheen is better than sack. 

“ So come, my jolly tailor men. 

And let us drink a toast ; 

We do not wish to seem too vain, 

Nor do we care to boast ; 

But certain ’tis that ours is 
The art man needs the most. 

Merrily, merrily, merrily sings 
The kettle on the hob ; 

Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily rings 
The glass when we hobnob. 

Hobnob, Bob, 

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Jack ; 

Hobnob, Bob ; 

Potheen is better than sack.^* 

With this song, which was received with acclamations by 
the assembled brotherhood, the party broke up. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

BOHEMIA. 

Alford and Towling spent a week in visiting the little 
mountain towns in the vicinage of Rome. The latter 
always insisted upon sitting up late every night, making 
merry, eating and drinking the best the land afforded, and 


BOHEMIA, 


163 


inviting such decent-looking strangers as he chanced to 
meet to join him in his carousals. He scattered money lav- 
ishly, and was repaid therefor by being dubbed “ milor” by 
the obsequious Italians. 

They were considerably knocked up by their hilarious 
progress ; but the evening of their return to the city, in 
spite of his fatigue, Alford called on the Westons. Mrs. 
Weston begged to be excused, as she was feeling a little un- 
well, but he found Elenor and Mr. Dimplechin in the sit- 
ting-room. When he entered they both seemed to be labor- 
ing under that spell of silence which sometimes falls upon 
two people when left alone together — either from lack of 
topics of conversation or want of sympathy. Dimplechin 
sat looking at a picture on the wall, with a very dejected ex- 
pression ; while the young lady, looking down at her hands, 
was playing rather nervously with the rings on her fingers. 
The latter seemed very much relieved by the entrance of a 
visitor, and rose to receive him with an alacrity which almost 
seemed to say, “ Your coming is most opportune.'’ 

“O Mr. Alford!” she said, giving him her hand, the 
touch of which sent a thrill through him, ” I’m so glad to 
see you. I hope you have had a pleasant trip.”. 

” Very pleasant, thank you,” replied the young man, 
turning to shake hands with Dimplechin, who had risen 
rather more slowly than his fair companion. ‘ ‘ It was rather 
cold among the mountains, and my companion was most too 
energetic for me ; but in spite of those circumstances I 
have enjoyed myself very much.” 

” And your friend Mr. Towling — when does he leave for 
America ?” 

” In a few days, I believe.” 

” I am so sorry we never made his acquaintance,” said 
the young lady ; ” you have told me so much about him 
that I have really had some curiosity to meet him. He 
must be a strange character.” 

” He’s awful wough,” put in Dimplechin ; and these were 
the first words he had spoken since Alford entered the 
room. 

“I’m afraid he is a thorough Bohemian,” said Alford, 
smiling, “ and I have no doubt but that he does appear 
somewhat rough to those who know little of him ; but I as- 
sure you he never means to be rude nor malicious, for he 
is the most good-natured, whole-souled fellow I have ever 
met. And by the way, Dimplechin, he made me the bearer 
of an invitation to you. I went to your rooms, but you 
were not there.” 


164 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** Invitation ? — to me said Dimplechin. “ What in the 
deuce — beg pardon, Miss Weston — but what’s it all about, 
Alfword ?” 

Well, he is going to have a little gathering of his friends 
— a sort of farewell party — at his studio to-morrow even- 
mg. 

“You will go, of course, Mr. Dimplechin?’’ said Miss 
Weston. 

“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’’ was the reply. “To 
tell the twuth, 1 don’t feel — aw — aw — much inclined for 
any thing of the kind just now.’’ 

“ But I’m sure you’ll go,’’ said the young lady, who 
seemed very persistent in her desire for him to accept the 
invitation. “ You certainly cannot refuse. Just think of 
the pleasure of an evening spent in the company of so many 
rising geniuses ; one does not have such an opportunity 
often, and we poor women are debarred from such delights 
altogether. ’ ’ 

“ There’s just it,’’ said Dimplechin : “I’m afwaid — aw 
— aw — afwaid I’ll be out of my element, you know — I’m 
not used to that kind of thing.’’ 

“ Oh ! you needn’t be afraid of that, ’ ’ said Alford ; “ you’ll 
soon find yourself at home among us, I’ll warrant ; and the 
display of genius will not be very grand — Miss Weston was 
speaking ironically.’’ 

“No, indeed, I was not,’’ said the young lady ; “ and I 
often envy you gentlemen your opportunities of familiar in- 
tercourse with the Bohemian element, of which we ladies 
see so little except at a distance. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Bohemianism has its own peculiar charms, I know, ’ ’ 
said Alford, laughing ; “ but I must confess my inclinations 
don’t lead me in that direction, and I think a very slight ac- 
quaintance with it would satisfy you. Miss Weston. How- 
ever, once in a way it is very pleasant, and I advise you to 
try it this once, at any rate, Dimplechin ; you will see a new 
phase of life, and that is something.’’ 

“Aw — well — I’ll come,’’ said Dimplechin. “ You’ll be 
there, of course, Alfword?’’ 

“ Certainly — I’ll be there,’’ replied the artist, “ and I 
promise you that you shall enjoy yourself.’’ 

“ That’s right, Mr. Dimplechin,’’ said Elenor ; “ go by 
all means, and then you can tell me all about it : I would 
like to hear a graphic description of a gathering of Bohe- 
mians.’’ 

“ Oh ! I’ll go, Miss Weston, I’ll go,’’ said Dimplechin ; 
“ but I’ve no dwout they’ll cawwy me home dwunk. I’ve 


BOHEMIA. 165 

never been dwunk in my life ; but I feel now as if I’d like 
to be dwunk — weal beastly dwunk.” 

” For shame, Mr. Dimplechin, oh, for shame,” cried the 
young lady. ” I’m shocked to hear you talk so;” and a 
troubled look came into her face. 

“ I can’t help it. Miss Weston, I weally can’t — it’s the 
weal twuth — but I’ll twy to get over it, I weally will. 
Good-evening. Good-evening, Alfword and he left with- 
out further ceremony. 

” What’s the matter with the man ?” asked Alford, look- 
ing at Elenor with astonishment. 

‘ ‘ He has met with a misfortune, ’ ’ she replied quietly ; 
‘ ‘ but I have no doubt he will soon get over it, ’ ’ she added 
with a little sigh. 

” A misfortune. It m.ust have been something very seri- 
ous to have affected him in this way. Has his father failed 
in business ? or is he dead ? or — what is it ?” 

” He has made a confidant of me, Mr. Alford, and of 
course I cannot betray his confidence ; but I can tell you 
this much, his troubles are not of the nature you suppose ; 
and, as I said before, I have no doubt he will soon get over 
them. ” 

“Well, I sincerely hope he will,” said the young man, 
“ for he is a good fellow at heart.” 

“Yes, indeed he is,” replied Elenor earnestly ; “ and he 
likes you very much, Mr. Alford, I know. ’ ’ 

“ I believe he does.” 

‘ ‘ Come, ’ ’ said the young lady, evidently desirous of drop- 
ping the subject of conversation, “ let us have some music 
and she went into the music-room and seated herself at the 
piano-forte. 

Towling’s guests were chiefly American and English art- 
ists, with a sprinkling of Italians, Frenchmen, and Germans. 
The most of those who were not English or American un- 
derstood the English language more or less, so that there 
was no very great confusion of tongues ; everybody being 
able, in one way or another, to make everybody else under- 
stand what he was talking about. The conversation turned 
principally on art and artists, as a matter of course ; the 
Frenchmen and Englishmen arguing the relative merits of 
Claude and Turner, the latter having been recently brought 
into unusual prominence by Mr. Ruskin. 

Alford’s rooms had been used for the reception of the 
company, and a sumptuous supper was laid in Towling’s 
studio, to the discussion of which the guests were invited 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


166 

when all other discussions had grown “ flat, stale, and un- 
profitable/' 

“ Hello, Hal !" said Towling, addressing a handsome 
young Englishman, when they were assembled around the 
board, and were as busy as bees gathering honey, “ you are 
dressed in ‘ gorgeous array,' like Villikins’ Dinah" — re- 
ferring to a new velveteen coat that Hal had on. " Where 
did you get that elegant attire ?" 

" Ha, ha !" said Hal, smoothing out the wrinkles of the 
coat ; “ a present from my tailor, Tom. Isn’t it just the 
thing ?" 

" Indeed it is," said Tom, while half a dozen others 
gathered round to inspect the garment ; " but what sort of 
a tailor have you got, to make you such an elegant present ?" 

" Oh ! he's a capital fellow, as you might know, or he 
wouldn't have given me such a coat." 

Come, Hal," said Towling, laughing, " tell us how you 
bamboozled the poor devil out of his property, for you 
know very well you hociissed him in some way." 

" Bamboozled !" said Hal musingly ; " what the deuce 
is that? Is it a French word, Monsieur Dupont?" he 
asked of a Frenchman who stood at his elbow grinning. 

" Vat !" said the Frenchman, shaking his head — " bam 
— bambooz ? JVon, monsieur ^ il n est pas fran^ais : I think it 
ees indien,, an' it mean vun plant — von leettle steek." 

"Do you hear that?" cried Hal. "Monsieur Dupont 
says that awful word means a stick ; you surely don’t intend 
to insinuate that I beat the man and took the coat. I 
thought bam — bam — what the deuce is it ?’’ 

" Bamboozled," said a young American. 

" Ah, yes ! that's it — bamboozled. I thought it must be 
one of your horrid Americanisms ; but since Dupont says 
otherwise, I suppose I must be mistaken. I confess I 
never heard it before. ' ' 

" Come, come, Hal," cried an English sculptor from the 
other side of the table, " that won’t do. Bamboozle is a 
good old English word, and you know it ; and I vote that 
you be made to confess the bamboozling arts by which you 
became possessed of that magnificent garment. ’ ’ 

" And I — and I — and I !" shouted several others. 

" Come, confess, sir knight of the brush," said the sculp- 
tor, " or you shall be put to the torture." 

" And what may the torture be ?" asked Hal. 

" To swallow a quart of Roman beer." 

" By Jove ! I shall make haste to confess, then," said the 
painter. 


BOHEMTA. 


16} 


** That’s right,” said Towling, ” make an honest confes- 
sion, and be done with it. We all know that you didn’t buy 
the coat — at least, that you didn’t buy it and pay for it — for 
if you had done so, you would be too thin now for it to fit 
so snugly ; so out with the secret by which you became 
possessed of it, and your conscience will be at rest hencefor- 
ward and for evermore.” 

” Will you be father-confessor ?” 

” Of course I will. Down on thy knees, down on thy 
knees, thou son of Belial, and pour out the foul flood of 
thine iniquities !” 

By this time the rest of the company ; with glasses of wine 
or punch in their hands, had gathered round the supposed 
culprit, and several of them taking hold of him forced him 
down upon his knees. 

” Now begin,” said the father-confessor, swallowing a 
glass of punch. ‘ ‘ By what vile witchcraft or necromancy 
didst thou become possessed of this priceless treasure — this 
wondrous fine garment, which it only beseemeth the wealthy 
to wear ?” 

” By the witchcraft of ‘ milor,’ most reverend father.” 

This announcement, which almost all present understood, 
was received with shouts of laughter. 

‘‘ Oho !” said the father-confessor, ” is that so ? Then 
thy case is worse than I supposed ; for this witchcraft of 
‘ milor ’ is the most heinous kind of witchcraft known. By 
it unsuspecting tradesmen are inveigled out of their goods, 
and young maidens are persuaded into unhappy marriages 
with worthless adventurers, not to mention the noble army 
of snobs who are fooled and bedevilled by it. But go on ; 
tell us how thou didst work it, O miserable sinner ! There 
may be some present who would like to understand this 
wonderful art, which beats picture-painting and statue-mak- 
ing ‘ all holler ’ — excuse me, friends, for using the language 
of the Antipodes ; but it is sometimes very expressive.” 

” You must know,” continued the penitent, ” that I have 
been guilty of this sin more through the force of circum- 
stances than from any innate vice in my own moral nature, 
and make allowance accordingly, most reverend father.” 

” I hear,” said the father-confessor, ” and I will tell thee 
parenthetically, that I’ve heard that same tale ‘ often and 
oft.’ But proceed.” 

“ Well, then, I will ask, do you happen to know a tailor 
who sojourns in the Via Repetta, near to the Piazza del 
Popolo ?” 

“ Aye, I have had dealings with him — a little gray- 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


1 68 

headed man, of urbane and confiding manners. What of 
him 

** I chanced to go into his shop — or warehouse — one day 
in company with several reputable gentlemen, who would, be 
called, in the language of London’s canaille., swells — one or 
two of my friends who were in the habit of addressing me as 
my lord, for what reason modesty forbids me to state.” 

” Because of thy lordly airs, I suppose,” said the father- 
confessor, pouring a few drops of punch on the top of the 
penitent’s head. ” This in itself is a sin ; but thus I ab- 
solve thee.” 

‘‘ Since that day,” continued the man of sin, ” that un- 
happy tailor has insisted upon making my clothes for noth- 
ing.” 

‘‘For nothing? Great Caesar! did I hear aright? For 
nothing, didst thou say, O wretched man ?” 

” On credit, which amounts to about the same thing.” 

” Thou hast well said, my son. Go on.” 

” There is nothing more to tell, reverend father, save that 
the poor man has placed over his shop door a sign bearing 
the mysterious legend, ‘ Sartore di Milor.,' the privilege of 
assuming which motto 1 suppose he considers sufficient re- 
compense for his labor in decorating my person.” 

‘‘ I have seen that mysterious emblem,” said the other, 
” and wondered at it. But is that truly all ?” 

” Yea, truly.” 

” Then thus I absolve thee,” said the father-confessor, 
repeating the process of pouring punch on the top of his 
head. ” I shall only enjoin upon thee a light penance, my 
son, for I really can’t see that thou wert much to blame. 
Thou shalt drink a bumper of punch, and then sing a song 
— for that thou hast an excellent voice, I know full well.” 

“ As many bumpers of punch as you please, father ; but as 
to the song — ” 

” Enough, enough, my son ; without the song thou canst 
ne’er be forgiven. Ho there ! fill this wretched being a 
glass of your strongest brewing.” 

Half a dozen glasses were proffered at once, but the peni- 
tent was satisfied with one, and raising it high above his 
head, after testing its quality, began, in a fine baritone 
voice, to sing 

“a health to all the lasses.** 

“ Old Care, thou hast the ugliest face 
That e’er on earth was seen ; 

Ah ! pity for the human race 
That thou wert born, I ween : 


BOHEMIA. 


169 


But merry mirth we court with will, 

And seize her proffered hand ; 

So come, my lads, your glasses fill, 

Nor let the bottle stand. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

All flesh, they say, is grass ; 

So let each wight now do what’s right. 
And raise a brimming glass. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Here’s to the bonniest lass. 

“ Come up, my girl, and tell thy name — 
Thou with the sparkling eyes — 

* Jemimy Jane ; ’ Oh, what a shame / 

The parson was not wise 
Who christened thus a pretty dear 
Who has such taking airs ; 

Vet may thine eyes be ever clear. 

Thy garments free from tears ! 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Ho ! let the bottle pass ! 

And every wight do what is right. 

And raise a brimming glass. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Here’s to this bonny lass. 

“ And thou, fair one with auburn hair. 
Dressed with such charming art ? 

Thou art so sweet and debonair 
Thou captivat’st the heart. 

Ah ! ‘ Mary Lou.’ Much better that ! 

It fits those cherry lips : 

So may’st thou never grow too fat. 

Nor lose thy graceful trips. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

So mirthful hours pass ; 

Let every wight uphold the right. 

And raise a brimming glass. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Here’s to this bonny lass ! 

“ Here’s quiet Susan, with those looks 
So bashful and so shy : 

She studies love in many books, 

But will not practice try. 

Perchance she thinks — the modest one — 
She not enough hath read : 

Believe me. Sue, love waits upon 
The heart, and not the head. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 


170 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


Life’s joys are short, alas ! 

So let each wight now do what’s right, 

And raise a brimming glass. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Here’s to this bonny lass ! 

** Now cometh one all full of love, 

Though stately is her way ; 

Naught can her virgin bosom move 
While shines the garish day : 

Let evening, with her shadowy shroud. 

Enwrap the hill-tops gray, 

While Luna peeps from yonder cloud 
Maude melts beneath her ray. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

So Love his victory has : 

Let every wight now do what s right, 

And raise a brimming glass. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Here’s to this bonny lass ! 

** Now here’s to every lass we’ve seen, 

The shy, the sly, the fond ; 

The gay, the mild, the stately queen. 

The brunette and the blonde. 

Fill up your glasses to the brink. 

We’ll quaff to one and all ; 

We’ll drink, drink ; clink, clink. 

Until the last man fall. 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Ha ! ha ! the bottle passes ! 

Come every wight, stand up for right ! 

And raise your brimming glasses ! 

Drink ! drink ! 

Clink ! clink ! 

Here’s to all bonny lasses !” 

After Hal had sung the first stanza every one present who 
could raise a note joined in the chorus, clashing and crash- 
ing their wine glasses and goblets together without any re- 
gard to the value of the brittle ware, and the song was fin- 
ished amid the wildest enthusiasm. 

“ Hello, Hal !” shouted one, after quiet was in a measure 
restored, “ where did you pick up that jolly canzona 
gioviale 2'" 

“ Did you never hear it before ?” asked the singer. 

“ No, I never did, and I doubt if anybody present here 
to-night ever did.” 

“ Ah, Philip, my son ! you don’t go much into the musical 
world, and that accounts for your lamentable ignorance.” 


BOHEMIA, 


171 

‘‘ By Jove !’* exclaimed a bright-faced youth, who with 
eyes half closed was squinting at the light through a glass of 
Burgundy, ‘‘ I’ll wager five scudi Hal took a dictionary and a 
tailor’s tape line and made it himself — now didn’t you, Hal ?” 

“ Whether he did or not,” put in a seedy-looking young 
fellow, ” it’s first-rate. That idea about Maude and the 
moon is capital — ain’t it ?” 

” Ay,” chimed in another, whose general outfit was as 
seedy as that of the last speaker — with the exception of his 
waistcoat, which was new, and quite flashy enough to suit 
the taste of Disraeli himself, but didn’t fit the wearer, ” ay, 
its’s rather a neat fit.” 

” Wherein it is very unlike your waistcoat, Richard, my 
boy,” said Phil, laughing. 

” Oh — ah !” said Richard, trying to buckle the garment 
in question tighter ; ” but it is a good idea, isn’t it ? Maude 
is a moony sort of name, you know. Where did you pick it 
up, Hal?” 

” I got it just in the same way that you got your waist- 
coat, Dick,” replied Hal, poking him in the ribs ; ‘ I bor- 
rowed it. ” 

” Ho ho ! ha, ha !” and the laugh w^as general at Dick’s 
expense. ” See here, boys !” cried the youth, who had been 
examining the light through his Burgundy, ” do you sup- 
pose those old fellows who used to paint jewels so splendidly 
spent their cash in such matters ?” 

” Certainly not, Fred. We all know that most of them 
were too confoundedly poor to be able always to buy a meal 
of victuals, and how should they buy jewels, pray ?” 

” Just so,” responded Fred. ” Very few of them were 
rich, so how did they manage it, then ?’ ’ 

” Borrowed them, of course, as Hal says Dick did his 
waistcoat.” 

” Ha, ha ! what a flat you are to be sure, or what flats 
you must think people were in those days to lend such im- 
pecunious chaps their jewels ! But I’ll tell you how they 
did it.” 

” How was it, Fred ? Let’s have it.” 

” Look there !” said Fred, holding his glass of Burgundy 
so as to display the scintillations of light in it to his next 
neighbor ; ” what do you see ?” 

‘ ‘ A glass of excellent wine, ’ ’ was the reply. 

” Is that all ?” Well, I see a magnificent garnet — such a 
jewel as money couldn't buy, though the garnet is not ex- 
pensive. And now take a glass of Bordeaux, and you have 
a ruby of surpassing loveliness — beyond price.” 


172 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Those who had been listening to this conversation imme- 
diately began to test different kinds of wine in search of 
precious gems, swallowing the contents of their glasses as 
soon as they had proclaimed the nature of their discoveries. 

“ Here,'" cried one, holding up a green glass that he had 
filled with Hock, “ I’ve got a beautiful emerald — a perfect 
treasure. ’ ’ 

“ Fraud ! fraud !” shouted Fred. ‘‘ That won’t do ; it’s 
the glass and not the wine that makes your precious emer- 
ald.” 

” No, no ; no, no !” cried the others ; ” it won’t do.” 

” It’s an attempt to swindle,” said one : ” what shall we 
do with the swindler ?’ ’ 

” Put him to the torture. Yes, to the torture — the tor- 
ture.” 

” What shall it be ?” 

‘ ‘ Make him stand on his head in the corner and drink his 
Hock while he does it.” 

” Good ! good ! Fetch him along ! to the corner with 
him !” 

Before the culprit had time to protest his inability to per- 
form such a feat, he found himself turned upside-down by 
half a dozen pairs of hands, while the glass, having been re- 
filled, was presented to him. He took it all good-naturedly, 
and tried his best to do what was required of him ; but the 
liquor wouldn’t flow uphill, and his face and hair were satu- 
rated with it. 

” Well done, Villum,” said one of his executioners, as he 
was replaced on his proper pedestals, ” well done ! but 
don’t you try to be a sharper among sharps again.” 

” I don’t think I ever shall,” said Villum, laughing, while 
he wiped his face and rubbed his head with a napkin. ” I 
like Hock well enough for a drink, but it’s not the thing for 
a bath.” 

” True for you, my boy. But let’s see what’s going for- 
ward now — our little excitement seems to be about over.” 

” Signor Brunelli is going to sing,” said some one. 

” Bravo ! we will hear something fine, then.” 

Bravo Brunnelli ! — ava7ite ! alia frhnie^ signor!” was 
shouted by the noisy crowd. 

Brunelli was a magnificent-looking Roman — one of those 
noble specimens of humanity whom the stranger meeting in 
the streets of the Eternal City thinks can certainly be noth- 
ing less than a prince. Alas ! what are his feelings v^hen he 
sees the real prince — or rather, the one who wears the title ? 
If his faith in fairy tales has not already been lost, it is done 


BOHEMIA, 173 

for then. God makes some men princes — man bestows the 
title on their antipodes. 

The Italian came forward as desired, and sang, as all Ital- 
ians who make any pretensions to singing at all always sing, 
with perfect ease and art, that exquisite romanza by Cam- 
pana, “ lo son con te,'' 

A dead silence reigned among the audience from the mo- 
ment he began until he had finished, when the place re- 
sounded with bravos and encores. Being pressed to sing 
again, he complied with the ** Lamento del Moribondo’' 
from “ Mercadante.” 

They were getting on into the small hours by this time, 
and the wine and punch began to exhibit their supremacy in 
the increased hilarity of the company. One active young 
Italian danced the tarantella to music improvised by an- 
other, who took a pillow under his arm and gave a capital 
imitation of the performances of the pifferari ; after which 
the tables and chairs were set to one side, and a reel inaugu- 
rated, during the performance of which the too exuberant 
spirits had a chance to evanesce. 

Dimplechin, who had come, as he had promised he 
would, had been quiescent during the greater part of the 
night ; but he joined in the dance, and astonished every- 
body by his wild and extravagant feats. He had got drunk, 
as he had anticipated. He had had very little to say to any- 
body ; but had held quiet consultations with the wine-bottle 
and punch-bowl, and was now emerged from the lowest 
depths of melancholy upon the highest wave of jollity. 

When the dance was finished, another song was called 
for, and 'fowling, pushing Alford forward, saying he was 
the only American present who could sing, insisted upon 
his responding to the demand. Alford was somewhat bash- 
ful about exhibiting his powers after Signor Brunelli ; but 
was not so foolish, as to refuse to contribute his share to the 
entertainment, and sang 

“a health to the lady of my heart.” 

” Fill for me yonder goblet gold ! 

(Thus spoke once a knight of old ;) 

Drink to the lady of my heart 

One deep bumper ere we part ! 

Life is short and love is sweet ; 

Cupid on the wing is fleet ; 

So fill the goblet to the brim — 

We’ll drink till our hearts in Rhenish swim. 


” Drink to the heaven in her eyes ! 
Blue and bright as southern skies : 


174 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Drink to the roses on her cheek — 

Lips which naught but love can speak ! 

Life is short and pleasures fade, 

Beauty in the grave is laid ; 

Then fill the goblet to the brim — 

We’ll drink till our hearts in Rhenish swim ! 

“ Drink to the love that ne’er grows cold, 

Yet which ne’er was over bold ! 

Drink to the soul that’s true and kind, 

And the pure exalted mind ! 

Life is short and joy soon past ; 

Death will claim his own at last : 

Fill ! fill the goblet to the brim ! 

Drink till our hearts in Rhenish swim V* 

Of course there was much clashing of glasses and loud 
applause when Alford finished his song, and the mirth be- 
came “ fast and furious.” All manner of practical jokes 
were perpetrated, and the place resounded with shouts and 
laughter. 

” Hal,” said a young fellow, who was evidently a fop in 
his way, ” 1 wish you would take me round and introduce 
me to your ‘ Sartore di Milor.* ” 

“What did you say. Jack?” asked he of the velveteen 
coat, pretending not to have understood the request. 

“ Oh, come now !” said Jack, “ that won’t do, old fellow. 
You heard what I said, and I believe you understand plain 
English ; so don’t put on any airs about it.” 

” Well, perhaps I did hear you aright,” responded Hal, 
“ but I thought my ears might have deceived me ; for I 
couldn’t believe that any man — even though possessed of as 
much cheek as yourself, my boy — could make such a bold 
request.” 

“ Bold ! what may there be of boldness, pray ? If I have 
been interested in your venerable friend, and wish to ex- 
tend my patronage to him, ’ ’ with an assumed air of conde- 
scension, “ why should you object ?” 

“ Ho, ho, ho ! Jack, your patronage, eh ! We all know 
what your patronage means — don’t we, Fred ?” 

“ Aye,” said Fred, with a laugh, in which he was joined 
by several others ; “ who don’t ? Jack is a promismg au- 
thor, and is writing a book. When that book is published 
— the subject, by the way, is a most profound secret, and 
not a living soul has ever seen a page of the MS.; but when 
it is published, the world is to be electrified, and all credit- 
ors, great and small, satisfied. Isn’t that so. Jack ?” 

Jack made no response to this sally ; but turned away 
with a look of irritation. 


BOHEMIA. 


175 


** Come, come, old fellow,** said Hal, seizing him by the 
arm and stopping him, “ don*t let us part in anger, and 
don’t you think hard of me. I can*t be such an ungrateful 
dog as to introduce you to the man to whom I owe so much 
myself ; now, can I ?’* 

“ Ha, ha !’* laughed one, “ I should think not, Hal.** 

“ ‘ Is thy servant a dog, etc ? * ** quoted another. 

“ That’s all very well in the way of chaff,** said Jack, 
unable to suppress entirely the annoyance which the raillery 
of his comrades excited ; but I think I*m as well able to 
pay my bills as Hal or any of the rest of you.** 

“ Bravo, Jack ! bravo !** 

“ Have you inherited at last ?** 

“ Let us congratulate you, my son.** 

“ Is that mythical uncle dead, in very truth ?** 

“ Ha, ha ! when did the old curmudgeon go off?** 

‘‘ And didn’t he cut you off with a shilling, after all ?** 

“ Come, tell us all about it, old fellow.” 

By such and such like inquiries was the unhappy youth 
assailed from all sides, amid roars of laughter, while his 
hands were seized and shaken until the joints of his arms 
felt sore. 

” Come, come,” said Hal, ” let Jack alone ; and since he 
has impugned my ability to pay my debts, allow me to in- 
form all whom it may concern, that I shall settle all out- 
standing claims against my estate in the course of two 
weeks.” 

“Bravo, Hal! Who’d a thought it of him? Had a 
windfall, eh ? Give us your hand, my son ;” and the whole 
crowd turned upon Hal, treating him pretty much as they 
had done Jack. 

“ But how’s he going to do it ? ** asked one. 

“ Oh ! easily enough,” said another. “ He’ll just establish 
a bank of his own, and pay up in his own paper.” 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! ha, ha, ha !’* 

“ Take me in for a partner, Hal — a silent partner — 
& Co., you know ; I’ll be as mum as you please — only let 
me have the spending of a share of the cash.” 

“ But I’m in earnest, gentlemen all,” said Hal. “ I*ve 
sold my picture.” 

“ Sold his picture 1 Sold his picture ! Bravo ! Lucky 
dog ! Who bought it ?’* 

“ An American gentleman — Mr. Tulip.” 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, ho, ho ! Haw, haw, haw ! Tulip ! 
Bravo, Tulip !” 

“Well, what’s the matter with you fellows? Is there 


176 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


any thing so strange in my having sold my picture, or is it 
the purchaser’s name that amuses you ?” 

“Ask Tom. Come here, Towling. Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, 
ho, ho ! It’s too good.’’ 

“ Towling,’’ said Hal, a little annoyed himself now at the 
effect which his information had produced, “ is there any 
thing particularly amusing in my having sold a picture to a 
countryman of yours ?’’ 

“ It may very well be amusing to you, Hal ; but I don’t 
exactly see how” it can be so to anybody else. What picture 
is it that you have sold ?’ ’ 

“ My last ; I have not quite finished it, you know.’’ 

“ Oh yes, ‘ The Power of Music.’ It’s a fine thing. Have 
you seen it, Fred ?’’ 

“ No,’’ said Fred. “ I haven’t been to Hal’s studio for 
an age. It’s rather a threadbare subject though, it strikes 
me. 

“ Hal has given it a new interpretation,’’ said Towling. 
“ I’ll just give you some idea of it. A young girl is seated 
in a chamber richly furnished. — if I remember aright, some 
valuable trinkets are lying about on a table among hand- 
somely-bound books and other things. The girl is playing 
on a harp and singing, while the sunlight falls upon her 
through a high-arched window, on the sill of which stand a 
few pots of flowers. In the shadow of a quaintly figured 
screen stands a robber, who has entered the room with the 
purpose of plunder ; but the music has evidently entranced 
him : he has dropped the knife — with which he would not 
have hesitated to have done murder if he had found it neces- 
sary for the furtherance of his object — and stands listening 
with delight to the delicious sounds that have stayed his 
guilty steps. The sequel to the story any one can imagine 
for himself. That’s the picture, though I can’t do it justice 
by a mere description : you must see it. ’ ’ 

“ I certainly will, for one,’’ said Fred ; “ the idea pleases 
me.’’ 

“ And I. And I. And I,’’ said several others. 

“ But what were you all laughing at ?’’ asked Tom. 

“ Oh ! Oh ! We’d forgotten that. Just ask Hal who 
bought his picture.’’ 

He turned to Hal, who gave him the desired information. 

“Why, Hal,’’ he asked, “don’t you know that 
fellow ?’’ 

“ I never met him before the day he bought the picture. 
He came to my den in the company of several other gentle- 
men ; and I certainly thought he was rich. Is he not ?’’ 


BOHEMIA, 


177 


‘‘ Rich ! pah ! he’s rich in humbug. What did you offer 
the picture at ?” 

“ I didn’t offer it at any price. He went into ecstasies 
about it, and offered me one hundred pounds for it, off 
hand. ’ ’ 

“ And you accepted his offer ?” 

“ Yes, why shouldn’t I ? I thought he was all right. 
But confound the fellow ! he has served me a scurvy trick if 
what you hint at is true ; for I think one of those with him 
would have bought it in real earnest had he not been in such 
a hurry.” 

“ Why, Hal,” said Tom, ” I don’t suppose the fellow ever 
had that much money at one time in his life, unless he suc- 
ceeded in borrowing it from somebody as gullible as yourself. ” 

” But what could have been his object in offering to buy 
a picture that he knew he would never call for ?” 

” O Hal, Hal ! you are a greater innocent than I could 
have believed. He simply made you and your picture the 
stepping-stones for the accomplishment of a purpose of his 
own. He talked rich for the edification of his companions, 
who were probably strangers to Rome, and like as not suc- 
ceeded in borrowing money from some of them.” 

” Aha ! I see it all, now,” said Hal. ” I have met him 
several times and told him the picture was nearly com- 
pleted ; but he has not been near me.” 

” The next time you meet him, Hal, take him to the 
nearest fountain, and souse him in,” said one. 

” And hold him under awhile,” said another. 

” By Jove ! I don’t know but what I will.” 

” If you were to drown him accidentally, it wouldn’t 
much matter,” said Towling. ” But I’ll tell you what, 
Hal, I consider this matter in the light of a national dis- 
grace ; and if you’ll let it drop as far as Tulip is concerned. 
I’ll buy the picture myself.” 

” Will you ?” cried Hal. ” Are you in earnest, my dear 
fellow ?” 

” Of course I am. ” 

” Good !” said Hal, with a brightening countenance, and 
shaking the American vigorously by the hand. ” I know, 
Tom, from what I have recently heard, that you can very 
well afford it ; but I shall not expect you to pay so much as 
a hundred pounds for the picture.” • 

“But I shall, though, anyhow,” said Towling. ” It is 
worth every cent of the money ; and being in the same line 
of business myself, I certainly am not going to depreciate 
the value of the wares in which I deal.” 


178 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** Very well,” responded the other, ” since you will have 
it so, so be it. I did dream at one time of its creating a 
sensation in the R. A. exhibit. I hoped to sell it to some 
bloody Britisher ; but the bloody Britisher, it seems, doesn’t 
always appreciate home productions, and I am quite content 
that he should be deprived of the satisfaction of seeing what 
native-born genius can do.” 

” But you may have your opportunity too, Hal,” said 
Tom, “and the ' bloody Britisher ’ shall be forced to ac- 
knowledge the merits of the native.” 

“ As how ?” 

“ If you don’t object. I’ll send you a bill for the amount 
as soon as I get back to America — ” 

“ Object ! — ha, ha ! of course I don’t object. When did 
you ever hear of a man objecting to a bill for a hundred 
pounds — unless it was drawn against him ?” 

“ Stop, stop, my friend ! — just let me finish. I’ll send you 
the bill, and you can keep the picture as long as you see fit, 
and exhibit where you will. I only hope it will prove the 
wedge that splits the rock where fame and fortune lie hid.’’ 

“ Thanks, thanks, good friend !” cried the painter, quite 
overcome by such generosity ; “ you — you — ” 

Towling did not give him time to finish what he was going 
to say, but lifting a glass of champagne from the table, pro- 
posed to drink to his future success. 

“ And now,” he said, “ let’s call for another song. It is 
getting late — or, I should say, early — and I suppose there 
will be a break presently.” 

Immediately there were loud calls for a song, and some 
one cried out “ Deutsche ! Deutsche !” when old Rink 
Rank, who was there, shouted, “ Halloh., da! Franz.^ Fritz., 
Ludwig., Stephan., gehen Sie uns das Schneiderlied. ’ ’ 

In response to this call, four young Germans jumped upon 
the table, and clearing away the ddbris of the feast, squatted 
themselves, tailor fashion, and sang the “ Schneiderlied.,'^ the 
chorus of which, consisting of an imitation of the bah of a 
goat, was entered into with much fire and spirit by all who 
were capable of so much vocal exertion. Then the party 
broke up, and the goat refrain could be heard, echoed from 
street to street, as the Bohemians retired to their respective 
dens. Wakeful citizens stuck their heads out of the win- 
dows, and looked about them in amazement, thinking that 
all the goats from the mountains must have invaded the city ; 
while gendarmes on their rounds listened suspiciously, 
fancying some new plot of the Carbonari about to be devel- 
oped. Upon a nearer inspection of these disturbers of the 


BOHEMIA, 


179 


peaceful hours of the night, however, they shrugged their 
shoulders and passed on, being well acquainted with the 
peculiar characteristics of the great Bohemian army. 

In a few minutes the banquet hall was deserted by all save 
Towling, Alford, and Dimplechin. The latter, pretty far 
gone in liquor, sat on a chair in a maudlin state, trying to 
sing with a hiccoughy voice the “ Lamento del Moribondo.” 

“ Come, Dimplechin,” said Alford, ” I expect you'll have 
to occupy my bed, and I’ll take quarters with Tom, if he 
will allow me. ” 

“Certainly,” said Towling. “There ought to be room 
enough in my bed for two tolerably sober men.” 

“ So — said Dimplechin, thinking the term was in 
some way connected with himself : “ no — I’m not ^oher : I 
know that as — as well as the — the next man. But I tol’ ’er 
so — Alfoward — I tol’ ’er I’d get dwunk.” 

“ Never mind that, old fellow,” said Alford : ‘‘just go 
to bed now, and after a little sleep you’ll be all right again. 
Come and with the assistance of Towling he got his friend 
steady on his feet. 

“ Very drunk,” said Torn in an undertone. 

The object of the remark heard him, however. “ Beastly 
dwunk,” he said, swaying from side to side, while the oth- 
ers held him up as best they could — “ beastly dwunk ; but I 
tol’ ’er so, Al-fo-ward — an’ you’ll ’ave t’ get me— a cab. I 
don’t think — I can walk — I weally don’t.” 

“ We can’t get a cab this time of night, my friend. But 
come ; you’ll not have far to walk — it is only a step or two.” 

“ Aw,” said the inebriate, looking around him stupidly, 
“ aw — I’d’n’t know — when ’d er come — home.” 

“ Oh ! never mind ; just come along with us, and we’ll 
soon make you as comfortable as can be. Now — come.” 

Between them Alford and Towling got him into the next 
room, where the former stayed to act the part of valet. 

“ She wouldn’t — have me, Al-fo-ward,” said Dimplechin, 
“ she — she wouldn’t ’ndeed.” 

“What are you talking about, my dear fellow?” asked 
Alford, who did not yet seem to understand the situation. 

“ Elenor — Miss — aw — Weston, you know. I court’d 
’er — but she wouldn’t have — me. 

* Piu — -pin non veggo — non veggo — io^ ^ 

Man — mancOy oh ! Dio ! oh ’ — oh — oh — Dio ! * " 

The disappointed lover sang the woes of his dying proto- 
type with such a ludicrously melancholy expression that his 
friend could not help laughing as he helped him into jped. 


i8o 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** I know — m’ ’art — will bweak, you know,” he contin- 
ued, as he rolled over on the pillow. ” Aw — you’re — good 
f’ller — Al-fo-ward — an’ — an’ won’t tell ’er — but — but I’ll 
do — something desp’wate — I know ’er shall. She’s a p’fec’ 
lady — Al-fo-ward — a p’fec’ lady — an’ — an’ — tweated me 
like — like — a bwother, an’ 

* ii perdono — e — f amo — f amo — fain — ’ ’’ 

With that he fell asleep and Alford left him. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A GREAT MISFORTUNE. 

About eighteen months had elapsed since Thomas Tow- 
ling, having inherited his uncle’s money, had departed from 
Rome. Alford had worked hard, and was so well satisfied 
with his progress that he thought he might venture upon 
something ambitious ; and having selected a subject, was 
busy making such particular studies as he thought would be 
requisite for his forthcoming picture. He had continued 
his visits en famille at the Westons’ whenever they were in 
Rome — they spent the summer months in a more northern 
latitude — and was more than ever in love with Elenor, while 
he had, as he thought, good reason to believe that he would 
not be repulsed should he declare his sentiments to her. 
As yet, however, he had not done so. He stood in a very 
peculiar position, a position which a man without a nice 
sense of honor would have taken advantage of, but which 
held him in check, though he was often sorely tempted. 
The young lady, he knew, understood exactly his true posi- 
tion and prospects — he had taken especial pains to tell her 
how poor his family were, and how Mr. Hapton had come 
to take him up to make an artist of him, dwelling upon the 
fact that he had no reason whatever to expect any thing 
more from that gentleman after he was once well established 
in his profession — but Mrs. Weston positively refused to 
consider him in any other light than the prospective heir of 
the wealthy merchant. The fact is, she knew that the lat- 
ter had no relatives living, except some very distant ones, 
rich planters in the South, who had enough of this world’s 
good, and she could not understand why he should take a 
young man like James Alford — who she was well aware was 


A GREAT MISFORTUNE. 


l8l 

far superior to most of the men she knew — why he should 
take him into his house and treat him as a well-beloved son, 
unless he intended to adopt him and make him the heir of 
all his wealth. Consequently she looked with very evident 
favor on the growing attachment between her daughter and 
the young man, whom she believed to have so brilliant a 
future before him, and Alford felt that he stood in a false 
position which a high sense of honor forbade him to take 
advantage of — at least, so long as the daughter was legally 
under her mother’s control. 

So matters stood, when one evening he called and found 
the ladies in rather an unusual state of excitement. Mrs. 
Weston had received a letter that day from an invalid friend 
who had just arrived by sailing-vessel in Naples, begging 
her to come to her, and she had determined to start early 
the next morning. Mr. Tulip had offered to accompany 
them as escort, and a few minutes after Alford’s arrival he 
came in, having been to the office of the diligence to pro- 
cure tickets for the party. As the proximity of Tulip was 
always disagreeable to the artist, he soon proposed to Elenor 
a withdrawal to the music-room, where he had already 
spent so many happy hours, and where they proposed to 
while away the evening as usual between pleasant conversa- 
tion and music. But a few moments sufficed to show that a 
cloud hung over the spirits of both, and what little they found 
to say to each other was said in a low, hushed tone — that 
tone which we are accustomed to hear about the room where 
some dear one lies a-dying. They had parted often before ; 
but never had a parting seemed like this, though it might 
be, as far as they could at present discern, only for a few 
days — or weeks, at the most. 

Titto, who had come down from his perch to receive the 
caresses of his mistress, soon seemed to perceive that some- 
thing was wrong, and hopped about with a melancholy 
chirp, looking first at one and then at the other of his 
friends — for he had gotten bravely over his jealous pangs, 
and was now quite fond of his rival — as if he would say, 
‘‘What’s up now between you two? Has any malicious 
body been putting in a wrong note, to destroy the harmony 
of your souls, and turn all their sweet music into discord ? 
or has either one of you discovered a jangling chord in the 
other ?” It is probable, if Titto could have talked, that this 
is about what he would have said, though he might have 
said it in broken English — that quaint kind of English 
which Italians speak — for he was an Italian gentleman, you’ 
know. 


i 82 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ My poor Titto/’ said Elenor, with a sigh, which Alford 
thought he had as much right to as Titto, “ who is to love 
you when I am gone ? Nina will only think it necessary to 
feed you and give you water, never dreaming that your lov- 
ing little heart requires other food than flies and worms.’' 

As Titto had no language to express himself in answer to 
this appeal, he hopped upon his mistress’s shoulder and 
nibbled her beautiful ear. 

“You must come and see how he fares, Mr. Alford,” 
continued Elenor. “ I fear that Nina may neglect him. 
Poor Titto, you will have to spend the long, weary days 
alone, with nobody to sing and play to you.” 

Alford felt that there was another to whom the time would 
be long and weary, too ; and he longed for some of those 
caresses so lavishly bestowed upon the bird. He promised 
to look after Titto, and was only too glad of such an excuse 
to pass a few moments every day in a place that had become 
so dear to him. It would be some consolation to linger 
there and dream undisturbed of her ; to arrange and rear- 
range the music that she had handled, and to kiss — unseen 
by those who would have considered it insane folly — the 
ivory keys over which her dainty fingers had glided. 

When they parted there was a gentle lingering pressure of 
the hands, that sent a thrill to the heart, and their eyes met 
with a look that told all — all of that unutterable sadness 
which filled their souls. Love unspoken, and yet told in 
language stronger than mere words. Words ! words ! 
words ! what have they to do with love ? Love, trtie love., 
so much scoffed at, speaks in the language of the soul — a 
language that those who know not love do not understand — 
a language that we shall all, probably, understand better in 
that life where all is love, and harmony, and bliss. 

Alford walked slowly homeward, and entering his room, 
sat down in the moonlight that streamed in at the window, 
and listening to the musical splash of the fountain in the 
courtyard, gave himself up to thought. A delicious kind of 
sadness stole over him — a feeling hard to analyze : what the 
Italians would call agro dolce — a wonderful joy mingled with 
a sweet sorrow— joy in that he knew he was beloved, sor- 
row at parting with his love. He gazed up at the sky all 
studded with stars, among which the great silver globe sailed 
majestically, now and then darting behind some cloud, to 
reappear in a few minutes with, seemingly, an increase of 
brilliancy. He thought of the angels, and imagined them 
wending their way from star to star, on missions of grace 
and love. He wondered if it could be true, as Emanuel 


A GREAT MISFORTUNE, 


I S3 

Swedenborg has said, that the spiritual man sometimes visits 
those celestial beings while the material man lies prone in 
sleep : if so, what beautiful angels must receive the spirit of 
his Elenor into the celestial sphere — she who was almost an 
angel herself, even with the material body still clinging to 
her ! 

To those who have outgrown the romance of life, this 
may read like rhapsodical nonsense ; but who of us, if we 
will honestly uncover the tablets of our memories — I say 
honestly, because we are all of us only foo prone to allow a 
few leaves to stick together when we read the book of our 
lives backwards — who of us but that will find written there- 
on somewhat after the same style ? 

Alford had made a pencil sketch of Elenor Weston during 
one of his visits, and from this he had painted a cabinet- 
sized portrait, which he kept hid away from the public gaze. 
He now felt a great longing to look at it. Having struck a 
light, he was going to get it, when his glance fell upon a let- 
ter that had been thrust under the door. He picked it up 
and laid it on the table, intending to read it when the long- 
ing to gaze upon the beloved face was satisfied. He looked 
at the address as he laid it down, and noticed that it was in 
a strange hand, while in one corner was written, “ In 
haste,” which accounted for its having been sent to his 
rooms by the banker who received his mails. It bore the 
stamp of the Baltimore post-office, and wondering what 
could induce a stranger to write to him, and what could be 
the urgency of the case, he picked it up again, and opened 
it. It was from Hagget, the tailor, and its contents were as 
follows : 

” Dear Sir : As the case is urgent, and requires your 
immediate attention, I take the liberty of writing to you. 

” Your kind friend Mr. Hapton has met with a great 
misfortune. His confidential clerk, Pringle, disappeared 
about a week ago. Having the full confidence of his em- 
ployer, and the chief management of all his business, he was 
enabled to draw large sums out of bank, besides disposing 
of quantities of bonds, the sum total of which, with the 
amounts drawn out of bank, amounted to near two hundred 
thousand dollars. With all this money he has gone off, and 
thus far it has been impossible to track him. 

” The consequence of this is, that Mr. Hapton has been 
forced into bankruptcy, and all his assets seized. 

” He now lies at my house — having given up his own at 
once — very ill. He occupies Mr. Oliver’s room, and he, 


1 84 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Mr. Oliver, would have written to you, but that he is on a 
visit to his family, and knows nothing of all this. 

“ Mr. Hapton has been in delirium almost all the time 
since he has been sick^ and speaks of you constantly, seem- 
ing to be much troubled on your account ; and I think the 
sooner you come home the better. 

“ Yours very respectfully, 

“ Daniel Hagget.'* 

This was astounding intelligence certainly — most sorrow- 
ful news ; and yet, amid all his grief for the noble man who 
had befriended him, the first thought that occurred to him 
was, What will Mrs. Weston think now ?** He sat down 
and read the letter over again, and then he began to think 
about his journey homeward. “ After all,” he thought, ” I 
shall not see you again, my darling.” Then coming back 
to more commonplace matters, he wondered if he had 
money enough to carry him back to America. He took a 
little note-book, in which he kept his accounts, out of the 
table drawer, and doing a simple sum in addition and sub- 
traction, found that he had barely money enough to take 
him to England. His quarterly allowance — which was a 
liberal one, and which he never hesitated to use liberally in 
the pursuit of his studies — was about due ; but the blow had 
probably fallen before the remittance was made, and if so, 
it was scarcely likely that he would get any more money — at 
any rate, it would be a long time before he did. 

What should he do ? If Dimplechin had been in Rome, 
he would not have hesitated to ask him to lend him money 
enough to get home ; but Dimplechin was in Paris — at least 
he was there when Alford had last heard of him — and there 
was only one person at hand to whom he could apply. 
That was Mrs. Weston ; and though he did not like to ask 
such a favor of a lady — what man of any delicacy of feeling 
does like to ask a woman to lend him money ? — he deter- 
mined to lay his case before her, never doubting but that 
she would willingly assist him. Fut if he was going to do 
so — and he could see no other course open to him — he knew 
he must make haste, and putting on his hat, he went forth 
into the street again. Knowing the importance a few min- 
utes might be — it was late — he hurried along, and was soon 
reascending the stairs to Mrs. Weston’s lodgings. 

That lady was just preparing to retire as he entered the 
sitting-room — Elenor having already done so — but she set 
the lamp which she had in her hand on the table, and turned 
to him with a look of surprise. 


A GREAT MISFORTUNE, 185 

‘ * What IS the matter, my dear friend ?* ’ she asked. 
“ You look ill. What has happened to you ?’* 

“ Will you read this, Mrs. Weston ?” handing her Hag- 
get’s letter. ‘‘ It will explain every thing better than I 
could possibly do in my present state of mind.” 

She took the letter from him, and sat down, and he 
watched her closely while she read it, for remembering — a 
thing that he well knew by this time — that she was a thor- 
oughly worldly woman, he began to doubt, at the last mo- 
ment, the success of his mission. Her eyes at first dilated 
with a look of astonishment ; but that expression gradually 
faded away, and she seemed to be thinking, not of the letter 
which she held before her, and appeared to be reading, but 
of something that the first part of the letter, which was in- 
deed all she had read, suggested to her. She was thinking 
of the changed prospects of the young man who sat anx- 
iously waiting for some expression of sympathy from her. 
She spoke at last ; but there was a cold, hard tone in her 
voice, which showed that no real heartfelt sympathy 
prompted her. 

” It pains me much to hear this sad news, Mr. Alford,” 
she said. ” It must be a terrible blow to him in his old 
age, to say nothing of the disappointment to yourself.” 

” Disappointment to myself, Mrs. Weston !” he ex- 
claimed. ” Let me assure you there is no disappointment to 
me further than my prospects for the present are concerned. 
I will, of course, have to give up my studies here at once, 
and return to America, which, I will admit, is a great source 
of regret ; but that is as nothing when compared with my 
anxiety and sorrow on his account ; for, as you see by the 
letter, Mr. Hapton is very ill, and my chief desire now is 
to be with him.” 

” Of course. I can very well understand that you should 
feel thus ; and I suppose you will have left Rome by the 
time we return from Naples.” 

” I would start for home to-morrow,” said the young 
man ; ” but there is a difficulty — a — a — I have not enough 
money to carry me back ;” and then he hurried on with what 
he had to say, as if he was afraid of being interrupted be- 
fore he got through. ” I came to you, as the only person 
with whom I was sufficiently intimate in Rome to ask such 
a favor of, thinking that you might aid me. I have enough 
money to reach Liverpool ; but none to pay my passage 
across the Atlantic, and I thought, under the circumstances, 
you would help me.” 

The lady made no immediate reply ; but sat looking at 


i86 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


him as though she did not know exactly what to say. At 
last, however, she said, “ Really, Mr. Alford, I’m very 
sorry that it should happen so, and that you should be left 
in such a strait, but you certainly ought to know, from the 
simple style in which I live, that my means are limited ; 
and it will be impossible for me to comply with your re- 
quest. Indeed, it seems strange to me that you should be 
without funds, as I was always under the impression that 
your allowance from Mr. Hapton was very liberal.” 

“You were perfectly right, Mrs. Weston,” he replied; 
“ my allowance has been very liberal ; but I have never 
considered it necessary to economize, and have availed my- 
self of every facility that offered for the advancement of my 
knowledge in the art which I came here to study, so that I 
have never found it too large for my expenses. The usual 
quarterly remittance is now due, but after this sudden re- 
verse of fortune to Mr. Hapton, I have little hope of receiv- 
ing it.” 

“ But surely you might wait and see ; you may be alto- 
gether mistaken, and a few days can make very little differ- 
ence.” 

The young man did not speak again for some time. He 
was thinking moodily over the situation. Notwithstanding 
Mrs. Weston’s assertions with regard to the state of her 
finances, he knew very well that she could lend him the sum 
he wanted — if she would ; but it was very evident that she 
wouldn’t ; so he determined not to press the matter further. 
With what he had he could reach Liverpool, and once there, 
he might make arrangements to go as steward, supercargo, 
or in some other capacity on some American ship homeward 
bound. If the worst came to the worst, he could apply to 
the United States consul ; but this he resolved should be his 
last resort. 

When he first entered the sitting-room he had heard a 
rustling of garments in an adjoining apartment, the door of 
which stood a little ajar. The sound ceased almost imme- 
diately after the first few words were spoken, and he knew 
that Elenor was listening to the conversation between her 
mother and himself. He felt now that it was time for him 
to go — there was no excuse for his detaining the lady longer 
— but he longed to see Elenor once more, and lingered, in 
hopes that she would come out. She did not come, and re- 
luctantly he arose to take his leave. 

“ I will bid you good-by, Mrs. Weston,” he said, ex- 
tending his hand. 

She took it coldly. “ Good-by, Mr. Alford,” she re- 


A GREAT MISFORTUNE. 


187 


sponded, without the slightest appearance of emotion. “ I 
am sorry we shall not see you again ; but I hope you will 
wait in Rome until your remittance arrives.” 

” There is no remittance coming to me, madam. I am 
so sure of it that I certainly shall not wait.” 

” Well, of course, you must do as you please ; but I 
should advise you to wait, if it is only for a few days.” 
She did not ask him what his plans were when his money 
should give out : probably she did not care to know. He 
was no longer the supposititious heir of a wealthy man, and 
she felt no further interest in him. Why should she ? The 
only interest she had ever felt in him, after all, had been 
fictitious in its character, in which the sole motive power had 
been her love of money, either in itself, in its possessors, or 
those whom she thought would some day possess it. Her 
love of money, we may thus say, was arranged grammati- 
cally, in the superlative, comparative, and positive degrees. 

” I would like,” said the young man hesitatingly, ‘‘ I 
would like to see Elenor — Miss Weston, I mean,” — hur- 
riedly, as if he feared the mother would resent his calling 
her daughter by her given name. ” 1 would like to see her 
before I go, as it may be years before we meet again.” 

” My daughter has retired for the night,” said Mrs. Wes- 
ton, casting a hasty glance at the door which communicated 
with the next room, evidently fearing the young lady might 
come forth without being bidden. ” She was very tired, 
and I don't care to disturb her. Besides, you bade her 
good-by only a little while ago. Of course you did not 
know it was for so long ; but that can make but little differ- 
ence.” 

Little difference ! Great Heavens ! what sort of a woman 
was this ? She who had encouraged him in his love for her 
daughter, who had showed in every way her desire that the 
course of his true love should run smooth. Had she ever 
been young ? had she ever known what it was to love ? He 
doubted the latter. At the same time he wondered why 
Elenor had not come to speak to him, for he was certain 
that she had heard all that had passed. He turned a last 
! despairing look to the door of her chamber, and then left 
! the room with a heavy heart. 

' Those who have lived in apartments in Rome know how 
i, the houses are built and inhabited. Each piano or flat is 
f occupied by a family, and the common stone stairway some- 
I times climbs towards the back of the house, sometimes to- 
wards the front. In the former case the kitchen door opens 
upon the landing, in the latter the door of the reception- 


i88 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


room ; and when the house is small the two doors are con- 
tiguous. In the apartments which Mrs. Weston occupied 
the stairway climbed towards the back of the house, and 
consequently the door of the culinary department was the 
first reached. 

When Alford quitted Mrs. Weston, it was with a heavy 
heart, as I said before. He had never spoken a word of 
love to Elenor, it is true ; but he felt that he was her ac- 
cepted lover, though no words of love had passed between 
them ; and he thought it hard, cruel, that she had not come 
to bid him farewell, knov/ing, as he was certain she did, 
that he was going away from her — thousands of miles away, 
with no certainty that they should ever meet again. With 
these thoughts tormenting him, he reached the stairway, 
and was about descending, when the door beside him 
opened. The hall was filled with the light of the moon, 
and he was startled by the apparition of a figure clothed in 
white, with one hand held out towards him. In another 
moment he recognized Elenor. She was wrapped in a loose 
white garment, and her hair, which she had released from 
the accustomed Grecian coil, preparatory to arranging it for 
the night, floated rippling down far below her waist. Al- 
ford thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. He 
seized her hand, and cried, “ O my love ! my love !’' and 
drawing her to him, clasped her in his arms. 

For a few minutes she lay sobbing on his shoulder. 

‘‘ O my darling ! my darling he whispered, ** how 
hard it is to part with you.'* 

“ And yet it must be so," she sighed. 

"Yes, it must be so," he said, gathering her closely to 
him ; " yes, it must be so. Ah, God ! when shall we meet 
again ?' ' 

" He only knows," she said. " But you must go to him 
— he needs you." 

" Yes," he responded, " I must go to my friend and leave 
my love. O my darling ! my. darling ! this is hard to 
bear. ' ' 

For a little while they stood thus ; he with his arms 
clasped tightly around her, while he covered her face with 
kisses, she clinging to him. Then Mrs. Weston's voice 
was heard, waking them from their delirium. 

" Here," said the girl, slipping a purse into his hand as 
she retreated towards the open door, " take this, and 1 pray 
God it may be enough to carry you to him." Then, with a 
little dart back, and a kiss that lighted upon his lips like a 
drop of honey, slfe was gone. 


A GREAT MISFORTUNE, 


189 


When AKord left Mrs. Weston alone in her sitting-room 
he had felt inclined to accuse Elenor in his thoughts of cruel 
indifference in allowing him to depart without coming to 
offer a word of consolation ; now he upbraided himself for 
having permitted the shadow of a doubt of her to enter his 
mind. She, who was as harmless as the dove, had been as 
wise as the serpent. With what a heart relief he descended 
to the street ! 

“ Ah ! how beautiful life is,” he thought, as he walked 
along; “with all its disappointments and sorrows, how 
beautiful it is 

From one corner of the Piazza di Spagna a narrow street 
— 1 have forgotten the name of it now — runs a little way, 
and then turning at a sharp angle affords an easy ascent to 
the public promenade on Monte Pincio. Alford, excited by 
the events of the evening, and dwelling with lingering bliss- 
ful thought on his last interview with his beloved Elenor, 
felt no inclination to sleep. The moon was in the full, and 
was descending in the western sky, and the young man 
when he entered the Piazza turned his steps towards that lit- 
tle street, thinking he would take a last look at slumbering 
Rome, and spend some time in happy meditation in the now 
deserted garden of the Pincio. He had nearly reached the 
top of the ascent when he met two men, who seemed, as far 
as he could see by the faint light of the moon, to be gen- 
teelly dressed. He walked on one side in order to let them 
pass ; but instead of turning in the opposite direction, they 
took the same side of the way that he did, so as to confront 
him. 

“ Signor,” said one, touching his hat politely with one 
hand, while in the other he exhibited the gleaming blade of 
a stiletto, “ I think it very likely you will be robbed up 
there where you are going, so you had better leave what 
I money you have about you with us for safe keeping. We 
I will take good care of it, I assure you.” 

I This was certainly a polite way of robbing a man ; but 
i Alford had no intention of being robbed if he could help it 
— on that night of all others. He had not noticed until that 
, moment that he still held in his hand the purse which Elenor 
had given him, but instinctively he closed his fingers tightly 
1 upon it, and struck the man who spoke to him a blow be- 
i tween the eyes which sent him sprawling upon the ground ; 
\ then, before either of them had recovered from their sur- 
l prise, he turned and fled down the hill. He had not re- 
[ entered the Piazza, however, when he heard them following 
[ behind him, and just as he turned into it, he ran into two 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


190 

gendarmes. He was about to claim their protection ; but 
before he could recover breath to speak, one of them seized 
him roughly by the arm. 

“ Fiano., bricone !” he said ; and then perceiving that his ^ 
prisoner held something in his hand, he raised that member ' 
nearer to his eye. ''Aha! che diavolo he exclaimed, 

“ no wonder the fellow runs so fast.” ^ 

” Look !” and he held the hand with its contents up for 
his comrade’s inspection. 

Just then one of the men who had attempted to rob Al- 
ford came out of the dark street, where he had evidently 
been lurking, and listening to what was passing. A quick 
glance at the group before him explained the situation at 
once, for they were standing in the moonlight. 

” This fellow has robbed me of my purse,” he said, 

” and I am glad you have captured him ; but if he will re- 
turn me my property, I will make no charge against him, 
and you can let him go.” 

The accused denied the charge with indignation, and ex- 
plained the true state of the case in as few words as possi- 
ble. 

“What have you to say to this, signor?” asked one 
of the officers, addressing the Italian, for such the man’s 
speech proclaimed him. 

“ His tale is all a fabrication,” was the response. 

“ Haven’t you captured him in hasty flight with the purse in 
his hand ? What better proof do you want ? And where is 
this companion who he says was with me ? Seek ! you will 
not find him, for he exists only in this fellow’s fancy. I am 
an Italian nobleman, and my name is Conte Fiascone ; let 
him tell us who he is, and then judge for yourselves if his 
tale is to be believed, or mine.” 

The two officers doffed their hats obsequiously as soon as 
they heard the title, which Alford knew the fellow had as- 
sumed for the furtherance of his purpose, which was soon \ 
made evident. | 

“ Of course, il signor coiite.^ we cannot doubt your 
word,” said one of the officials, “so we will just take this I 
vagabond to the Ministry of Police, and you can bring your 1 
charge against him whenever you choose.” ' 

Alford laughed to himself at the dull wits of these |S 
Roman policemen ; but he said nothing more, seeing very b 
plainly that further protestations of innocence on his part 1 
would be unavailing. He consoled himself with the 
thought that the pretended count would never venture so . 
far as to put in an appearance at the Ministry of Police, 


A GREAT MISFORTUNE. 


191 

and that the next day would see him at liberty again. II 
signor Conte Fiascone^ as he called himself, did not desire the 
affair to take this course, however. 

“ I do not care,” he said, ” to send this man to prison ; 
i would prefer a more amicable settlement. As I said be- 
fore, if he will return me my property, he may go free, as 
far as I am concerned.” He was playing a bold game ; but 
he soon found, to his evident disgust, that it neither rested 
with him nor the man he had accused to settle the affair, 
however willingly they might have been to do so. The 
officials understood their duty at any rate. 

” But we cannot permit such an arrangement, excellenzay'* 
said the one who had hitherto been the spokesman ; ” we 
are bound to take the birbante to the Ministry of Police.” 

” Via! via! Per Bacco ! can't a gentleman show mercy 
to the culprit who has wronged him if he chooses ?” Then 
turning to Alford with a well-assumed look of compassion, 
he said, “You are rather a decent-looking fellow, my man, 
and Tm truly sorry that this should have happened so ; but 
you see I can’t help it : I’ve done the best I could for 
you.” The young man rather admired the fellow’s im- 
pudence, though he felt a strong inclination to knock him 
down again ; but he simply turned his back on him, and 
he addressed himself once more to the gendarme. ” I 
suppose you will return me my property, at any rate, ’ ’ he 
said. 

“I’m sorry, excellenzay' replied the officer; “but we 
can’t even do you that little favor. You will have to come 
to the Ministry of Police to-morrow and make your state- 
ment, when your property will be given up to you.” 

“ Corpo di Bacco !” cried his pseudo excellenza.^ “ but 
this is annoying. Come, let us see if we can’t arrange this 
matter and leading the man aside, he whispered something 
in his ear. But the officer, it was evident, was not to be 
bribed, for he shook his head, looking suspiciously at his 
comrade all the time. If he had been alone he would prob* 
lably not have been impervious to bona mano., but the gen- 
darmes of Rome are never sent out except in pairs, and they 
act as spies upon each other. They dare not take a bribe, 
for neither knows but that his comrade, in accepting such an 
arrangement, may do so only with the intention of betraying 
his accomplice. 

“Well, well,” said the would-be possessor of Alford’s 

IE urse, “ I don’t see what more I can do ; so I will bid you 
ood-night. ’ ’ 

“ Buona 7iotte.^ il signor conte^ buona notte.^^' responded the 


192 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


two officers, touching their hats ; and as they led their pris- 
oner away between them, he could not help chuckling over 
the failure of the bold financier with whom they had just 
parted^ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO. 

Alford walked quietly along between his two captors, one 
of whom had taken possession of the purse, and was soon ush- 
ered into the old palace occupied by the Ministry of Police. 
The gendarmes had not treated him roughly after his first 
encounter with them — his manners, which had been digni- 
fied and gentlemanly throughout the whole affair, had prob- 
ably impressed them with a certain amount of respect for 
him, notwithstanding the suspicious circumstances under 
which they had arrested him — and they now invited him, 
with some show of civility, to enter the principal office of 
the establishment. There he was brought into the presence 
of a black- whiskered man, who looked as though he might 
have been a brigand himself at one time. 

“Well, Pietro,” said this individual, addressing one of 
the officers, “ what is it now ?” 

The officer made his statement, and laid the purse, which 
was well filled with gold coin and bills, on the desk at which 
his superior sat. 

“ Eh, per»Bacco I” said the other, picking up the purse 
and looking greedily at the gold which glistened through 
the interstices of the silk meshes. Santa Maria ! I bel- 
lina. Where did you get this, bricone ?” 

It now occurred to Alford that the circumstances con- 
nected with his possession of the purse were of so delicate a 
nature that he would not care to impart them tt> any one — 
least of all to such an one as this fellow ; so he simply re- 
fused to give any explanation whatever. 

“ Aha ! so you refuse to tell how you came by it ?” said 
the officer, with a sardonic grin. “ That is just what I ex- 
pected.” 

“ I do not consider that it is any business of yours,” re- 
plied Alford. 

“ Oh ! Well, I’ll soon show you that it is some business 
of mine, young man. What is your name ?” 

“ Alford — James Alford.” 


A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO. 193 


“ Very well, Signor Alfor’. Occupation ? But that is un- 
necessary : I know that already — thief.’' 

“ That is a lie !” shouted the young man, making a quick 
movement as if to attack his insulter ; but he was instantly 
seized by the two gendarmes, one of whom whispered in his 
ear that he had better take things quietly. 

The official had risen from his chair, and his face had 
suddenly turned pale ; but he now resumed his seat, and 
with an affected air of nonchalance lit a cigar.” 

” Search him, Pietro,'” he said, after the first few whiffs, 
” and see that he has no arms about him.” 

Pietro did as he was bid, and reported that there t^as 
nothing except a little penknife in the waistcoat pocket. 

” Hand it here,” said the superior. ” This fellow is 
evidently a dangerous character, and we must deal with 
him accordingly. And now,” turning to the prisoner, ” of 
what nation are you ? for you are not an Italian, I know.” 

” Thank God I am not,” said Alford. ” I am a citizen 
of the United States.” 

” Aha ! and a republican, of course. Doubtless you are 
also a member of the Carbonari.” 

“Yes, I afn a republican ; but I belong to none of your 
Italian clubs of assassins.” 

Who did you say his accuser is, Pietro ?” turning to 
the gendarme. 

‘ ‘ II signor Conte Fiascone.^ signor. ’ ’ 

” I never heard of such a nobleman ; but it makes no 
difference.” He then took up his pen and filled out a 
blank that he handed to Pietro, giving him some directions, 
sotto voce. ’ ’ 

” Bene, signor,” said Pietro, touching his hat. ” Come, 
prisoner,” to Alford ; ” we must go.” 

Once more in the streets he asked his conductors where 
they were taking him ; but as neither of them gave him an 
answer, he concluded that they were forbidden to give any 
information to prisoners under their charge. He noticed, 
however, when they had v/alked a little way, that they were 
going in the direction of St. Peter’s, and wondered if he 
really were going to be an occupant of the Castle of St. 
Angelo. As the thought occurred to him, he remembered 
Towling’s joking about that very thing, and fancied his 
friend’s astonishment when he should hear of that night’s 
adventure. When they crossed the Ponte St. Angelo, which 
spans the Tiber in front of the Castle, he felt certain that 
his romantic fate, as Tom would have called it, had so 
decreed. 


194 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


When Pietro knocked upon the ponderous portal he 
awakened the echoes in the gloomy corridors of the vast 
prison — for such was then, and perhaps is now, the mauso- 
leum of Hadrian. That edifice, originally constructed to re- 
ceive the ashes of one poor vain human creature — insignifi- 
cant now, emperor though he once was — was used to im- 
mure hundreds of living men not a whit more insignificant 
in the eyes of their Maker than was the great (?) Hadrian 
himself. 

After some delay a shuffling of feet was heard within, a 
little sliding panel in the door was slipped aside, and a voice 
demanded, ‘ ‘ Chi e ' A satisfactory answer being given, 
the great door opened, after much grating of locks, sliding 
of bolts, and displacing of bars, and a sleepy-looking turn- 
key confronted them. 

“ Can we see the governor ?” asked Pietro. 

“No, you can’t, “ said the man; “he has been asleep 
these three hours.’’ 

“ But we have a prisoner here, and must deliver him into 
the hands of the governor. ’ ’ 

“ Well, I can’t help that. I tell you he is asleep ; and I 
wouldn’t be the one to wake him — no, not if you had Gari- 
baldi himself.” 

“ What are we to do, then ?’’ 

“ Oh ! deliver him over to me ; I’ll take care of him.’’ 

“ But we must have a paper — a receipt for him.’’ 

“ Ah ! that’s so. But let me see. I think I can soon fix 
that. There’s a little fellow upstairs — a sort of secretary to 
the governor. I don’t know if he has gone to bed ; but if 
he has, I will call him anyhow : at the worst he can only 
curse a little. Come in with your man.’’ 

They were conducted through a dark passage-way, feebly 
illuminated by the lantern which was carried before them by 
their conductor, and ushered into a room furnished with 
some rough benches and tables, where he left them and went 
in search of the governor’s secretary. He was gone some 
time, and when he returned was followed by a sharp-feat- 
ured little Italian, who rubbed his eyes and muttered a few 
oaths between his yawns. He merely glanced over the 
paper which the gendarme handed him, to find the name of 
the prisoner, for whom he wrote a receipt, and then retired 
as he had come. 

“ Now, prisoner,’’ said the turnkey, “ you had just as 
well remain quietly here until I come back ; for you couldn’t 
get out of this even though Saint Peter came down to help 
you.” 


A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO. 19S 

So saying, he picked up his lantern and lighted the way 
for the gendarmes, leaving Alford in complete darkness. 
Having let the gendarmes out, he returned. “ Now, my 
man,” he said, shaking a bunch of keys, “come along. 
You must be a prisoner of some importance to be sent 
here,” he continued, as Alford followed him through the 
winding passages. 

“ I don’t know what importance may be attached to me,” 
replied the young man ; “ but I know that I have been 
brought here by some wretched mistake which must be rec- 
tified to-morrow, if I am to have a hearing then.” 

“ A mistake ! Why, those who brought you here say 
your case is a very serious one. But I can tell you this, for 
your consolation — if it will be any — they were very sorry for 
you. As to a hearing : it’s not always easy to tell when an 
accused man will get a hearing — especially if he has offended 
some one in authority.” 

This information was by no means reassuring to the 
young man, for he had offended some one in authority — 
how much authority he did not know ; but enough, proba- 
bly, he reflected, to give him some trouble. He consoled 
himself, however, with the belief that his disappearance 
from the usual haunts of artists would certainly be noticed, 
and lead to inquiry and his release. 

“ Here we are at last,” said the turnkey, selecting a key 
from a great bunch of them that he carried ; “ and glad I 
am of it, for I’m precious sleepy. Make yourself as com- 
fortable as you can, amico : it isn’t long till morning, and I’ll 
see that you get your breakfast at the usual hour.” 

So saying, he opened a door, and pushing his guest in, 
closed and locked it behind him. 

When does man feel so utterly helpless as he does on find- 
ing himself in total darkness in a place the topography of 
which is entirely unknown to him ? The strongest and 
bravest feels weak and timid under such circumstances. He 
knows not in what peril he may stand — a peril, the nature 
of which being hidden from him, he feels unable to cope 
with. 

When Alford thus found himself shut in a prison-cell for 
the first time in his life, the atmosphere surrounding him 
was so heavy that, he felt as though the darkness was some 
tangible thing, pressing closely upon him from all sides. 
He stood perfectly still for a few minutes, and his eyes hav- 
ing recovered from the effects of the sudden shock to which 
they had been subjected, the air seemed to become just a 
little less thick and black. Still he could see nothing ex- 


196 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


cept a long narrow streak of light opposite and above him. 
This he knew must be the loop-hole in the wall — the gauge 
by which tyranny measures the amount of light and air to be 
doled out to its victims. He put his hands out in front of 
him and groped his way across the floor, hoping to find 
something upon which he could sit down and rest, for by 
this time he felt very weary. He stumbled over some ob- 
ject, and as he did so he thought he heard a faint groan. 
“Great God!” he thought, “what is that?” and some- 
thing like an electric thrill seemed to shoot through every 
nerve in his body, stopping, with a sudden shock, at his 
heart. He stood perfectly still for a few minutes, scarcely 
breathing, and listening intently, when, hearing no repetition 
of the sound, he concluded that his imagination, excited by 
all he had gone through in the last few hours, had deceived 
him. Nevertheless, it was with some hesitancy he stooped 
and reached forth his hand to discover what that was over 
which he had stumbled. It was a chain, lying coiled up on 
•the floor, and by looking closely he fancied he could just see 
it ; the only light that the loop-hole admitted — if we may call 
it light, that dull appearance only a little less black than the 
impenetrable blackness which surrounded it — falling upon 
that very spot. It looked like a hideous serpent lurking 
there, and he started back with a feeling of horror. He 
sought the wall of his cell, and sat down, leaning against it. 

Oh, how weary he was ! And yet he felt no inclination to 
sleep. But he could not have slept, even though he had 
been ever so much inclined to do so. 

He could not see the thing from which he had recoiled 
from where he sat ; but his eyes were fastened on the spot 
where it lay, and he could think of nothing else. It may 
seem strange that a man should be thus horror-struck, and 
at the same time fascinated, by a mere coil of chain — a thing 
that we may see any day by going to certain places. But 
this chain was unlike those other chains — there was doubt- 
less a fearful history attached to its rusty links. Ah ! if the 
history of all the chains in all the prisons of Europe could 
be written, what a book of lamentations we should have ! 

“ Alas !” thought Alford, “ how many a poor wretch has 
pined away the life which God gave him in the folds of yon 
iron serpent ! How many a human being,, who has mysteri- 
ously disappeared from the midst of his family and friends, 
and never returned to tell the tale of his sufferings, has been 
brought here and bound with it like a beast of prey ; denied 
that liberty which the great and good Creator has given to 
all, shut from the sweet light of heaven, and left to misery 


A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE OF ST ANGELO, 197 

and despair in the solitude of this dungeon ! And for what 
crime ? Most probably because he was more liberal in his 
opinions, and more generous in his aspirations for his fellow^ 
man, than those who had the power to spitefully use him. 
He could not keep the noble longings of his ardent soul 
within the narrow bounds prescribed by them. Ah ! do these 
scoundrels of God’s earth think by chaining the body to fet’ 
ter the mind ? God be thanked ! though they bind the 
limbs, tear out the tongue, use all the devilish machinery 
that man’s devilish ingenuity has invented to torture and 
subdue, thought will still be free — will yet, aided and 
strengthened by faith in Him from whom it came, work out 
man’s regeneration. 

' E pier si fnuove ! ’ said Galileo ; but these people have 
not yet learned, in all its senses, what the old philosopher 
tried to teach them. Aye, truly she moves ! In these 
days, with Christ’s help, the dumb speak, the deaf hear, 
and the blind see. We are carried from one quarter of the 
globe to another with a rapidity almost equal to that of the 
wind, and man hails his fellow-man hundreds of miles away, 
and receives his answering hail like the echo from a neigh- 
boring hill. Wonderful changes are being wrought in the 
affairs of this globe ; but these pigmies see it not. God 
help them on the day of their awakening !” 

For a long time Alford sat without stirring, thinking, 
thinking, thinking. His thoughts took a wide range. First 
they went over land and sea far away — thousands of miles — 
to Hagget’s little shop and the good, kind friend whose sor- 
rows were as his own ; and some bitter tears were the fruit 
of his thoughts : then they came back again and lingered in 
the music-room in the Via Babuino — that “ dearest spot on 
earth to him” — yes, dearer even than his native land. He 
wondered if Elenor, in her sleep, would not have some pre- 
sage, some warning dream, to tell her that he was in trou- 
ble. He hoped not ; for though the idea that their souls 
were so closely united, so interwoven, that neither time nor 
space could separate them, was beautiful to him and pass- 
ing sweet, it were better that she should have no cause for 
anxiety on his account — and dreams sometimes fill the minds, 
even of those who laugh at superstition, with an indefinable 
dread. 

He was roused from his reverie by the sound of some- 
thing moving. He listened, and thought he heard something 
breathing, in quick, short gasps : that soon ceased, and all 
was still again. What could it be ? Had he been shut in 
with some wild beast ? Or was it a man ? — perchance made 


198 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


more savage than a wild beast by long confinement. Then 
he bethought him that the sounds might have proceeded 
from a prisoner confined in the cell next to his. He 
tapped the wall against which he leant with his knuckles. 
It gave forth no sound — only hurt his knuckles. It was 
evidently thick ; but he reflected that stone, being to a cer- 
tain extent a conductor of sound, he might hear the move- 
ments of any person lying against the wall directly behind 
him. With this solution he rested content, and waited for 
day to dawn. 

He could not sleep, but just sat waiting, waiting, wait- 
ing ; and it seemed to him as though the morning never 
would come. Now and then he cast his eyes up to the 
loop-hole in the wall, and at last it seemed to him that the 
light which it admitted increased a little in intensity. Grad- 
ually it grew brighter — or rather less dull. Indeed, the sun 
w’as well up in the sky,' though he did not know it. High 
walls of masonry intervened to exclude the light of day 
from the place in which he was confined, and darkness 
never fled entirely from this its secret hiding-place, con- 
structed especially for its abode by men whose ways were 
dark. 

He watched and waited ; but the light (?) became no more 
light, and there was just sufficient for him to see the faint out- 
line of the chain over which he had stumbled ; beyond that 
and around he could see nothing — all was darkness, impene- 
trable darkness. 

At last he heard a sound — unlike the sounds he had heard 
before. Yes, it was the sound of footsteps. A key was 
thrust in a lock, the door grated on its hinges, and a stream 
of light was thrown into the cell. It dazzled him so that he 
could not see for a few minutes ; but when he became ac- 
customed to the welcome light — welcome, though it pro- 
ceeded from a lantern — he saw that two persons had entered 
the cell. The one carrying the lantern was evidently a 
turnkey, but not the man who had locked him in there ; the 
other looked like a gentleman, but no one that he knew, as 
his heart had at first sight of him leaped to believe. They 
* did not see him, but turned to a niche in the wall to the 
right of the door — a dark corner. 

“ Well, Giacomo,” said the ^superior of the two, and Al- 
ford thought at first he was speaking to the turnkey, ” how 
do you feel this morning ?” but it seemed like a mockery to 
be talking of the morning in that place. 

” I don’t know, signor,^''' said a husky voice, ” but I think 
I shall soon be free. You don’t understand me,” continued 


A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO. 199 


the speaker, when his questioner smiled incredulously and 
shook his head. ‘‘ Oh ! signor dottore., it is not the freedom 
of this earth I look for, but the freedom which the good God 
gives to us all at one time or another.'' 

Alford now perceived that there was another occupant of 
the cell besides himself, his ears had not deceived him. 

The doctor bent over his patient for a few minutes exam- 
ining him, and then turning to his attendant, said, “ I think, 
Antonio, that the old man is right ; he has changed much 
since I saw him last, and he ought to be moved out of this 
place and be allowed to die in comfort at least." 

Antonio shrugged his shoulders. " Eh, signor!" he re- 
plied, " what can I do ? You will have to see il cofnman- 
dante about it ; you know my duty is just to feed them and 
see that they do not escape. For my part, 1 think old Gia- 
como has suffered quite enough, and nobody knows whether 
it is for any thing or nothing. But, zitto., zitto^" and he laid 
his finger significantly on his lips ; " we must say nothing." 

The doctor made no reply to these remarks of the turn- 
key. 

" I will send you something to strengthen you, Gia- 
como," he said to his patient, as he turned towards the 
door, "and I will see if you cannot be removed to more 
comfortable quarters." 

" Thanks, signor," said Giacomo. " I will be glad of a 
little of the good God's light and air ; but as to my strength, 
it is quite sufficient to serve me to the end." 

Neither the doctor nor the jailer had as yet perceived that 
there was another person present in the cell. When they first 
entered they had turned at once to the corner in which the 
sick prisoner lay, and their backs had been to Alford ever 
since. He did not intend, however, that they should leave 
without being made aware of his presence ; and as soon as 
he saw they were about to go, he made a slight noise, which 
immediately attracted the jailer's attention, his ears, from 
long habit, being quick to detect any unusual sound. 

" Hello !" he said turning sharply round, and holding his 
lantern above his head, while he stared at Alford, who had 
risen from the floor and was standing calmly before him, 
" hello ! whom have we here ? How came you here, sir ?" 

* I was put in here last night, ' ' replied the young man. 

"Ah! yes, I understand," said the man, seeming sud- 
denly to recollect something. " That sleepy-headed fool, 
Andrea, has made another mistake. He should have put you 
in the cell next to this, and he told me he had — and your black 
bread and water were put inside the door two hours ago. I 


200 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


don’t suppose you feel much the better for it, eh?” he 
added, with a good-natured grin. 

‘ ‘ It makes no difference, ’ ’ was the response ; ” I have not 
been hungry.” 

” Oh ! but I warrant you will be long before dinner-time, 
which is not till to morrow morning,” said the other, laugh- 
ing. ” You see we have only seven meals a week in this 
hotel — breakfast one day, dinner the next, supper the next, 
and so on. But come, amico.^ since breakfast hasn’t come 
to you, why, you can just go to it — so it’s all right in the 
end, you see.” 

” Stay,” said Alford, ” stay a moment. I would like to 
have a few words with this gentleman first,” bowing to the 
doctor, who had stood thus far an apparently indifferent 
spectator of the scene. 

With me, sig7ior 2" he now asked, with some manifesta- 
tion of surprise. 

” Yes, sir,” replied Alford, ” I would like to have a few 
moments’ speech with you, and perhaps for me it may prove 
a fortunate mistake that has shut me in here with your pa- 
tient.” 

The doctor looked inquiringly at the turnkey. 

” You know it is against the rules, signor dottore^'" said 
that individual, ” but — ’ ” 

” But what, Antonio ?” 

” Well, I know you will not say any thing about it ; and 
this one looks like a gentleman.” 

” Yes, he certainly looks and acts like a gentleman,” as- 
sented the doctor. 

” And if he will — well — ” He said nothing more, but fin- 
ished his sentence by rubbing his thumb and the two first 
fingers together in a significant way. 

Alford understood the sign well enough, and putting his 
hand in his pocket where he knew he had some money, 
produced a piece of silver — five pauls, just equal to our half- 
dollar. He knew that that sum was quite sufficient to bribe 
Italian officials of a higher degree than a turnkey, and had 
no hesitancy in offering it. 

The fellow took it with a grazia^ and retired to the corner 
where the sick man was, where he pretended to be very busy 
with his comfort. Alford then told the doctor, in as few 
words as possible, the story of his arrest and incarceration. 

” Well,” said the Italian, when he had finished, ” if this 
be true that you have told me — and believe me, signor.^ I 
do not doubt it — I can see no reason why you should not 
obtain your release in a day or two at the farthest.” 


A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO. 20 1 


“ A day or two !*’ said Alford. “ Surely when the 
authorities know what I have just told you they will not 
keep me here a moment longer : I cannot see what excuse 
they could possibly have for doing so.” 

” But you forget, signor, that you will have to prove what 
you say. You refused to tell the commissary of police how 
you came by the purse which you were accused of having 
taken by force from this Confe Fiascone., and I fear, if you 
still persist in refusing to explain this satisfactorily, that you 
will have some trouble. The commissary who examined 
you evidently sent you here out of spite, for none but politi- 
cal offenders, or those who are considered desperate crimi- 
nals, are sent to this place. At any rate, as you at first sug- 
gested, it is fortunate for you that in his sleepy-headed 
stupidity the turnkey put you in this cell instead of the one 
he intended should receive you, for the commissary has the 
option to present your case or withhold it, and so the power 
to keep you here, if he so chooses, for an indefinite length of 
time. ’ ’ 

” But my friends would certainly miss me, and make in- 
quiries which would lead to my release sooner or later, ” 
said Alford confidently ; though he shuddered at the bare 
idea of having to await in such a place as that the slow prog- 
ress of those inquiries which were to set him free. 

” Perhaps so,” said the doctor dubiously. ” But didn’t 
you tell me the money in the purse for which you were ar- 
rested was given to you by some one to help pay your pas- 
sage back to America ?’ ’ 

” Yes, I believe I did.” 

” Very well ; some one knows, then, that you were about 
to leave Rome, and your disappearance would soon be ac- 
counted for.” 

” Two persons, it is true, know that I received a letter 
yesterday, necessitating my immediate return to the United 
States ; but those two persons leave Rome themselves to- 
day — have probably already gone.” 

” But don't you suppose those two persons, or one of the 
two, at any rate, may have told a third of your intended 
departure ? You have many friends, I dare say ; but the 
slightest intimation that you were about to leave Rome 
would satisfy them, and after the first day or two, the prob- 
ability is, that no one would trouble their heads about you 
— except your landlord, who, if you are owing him rent, 
would pay himself with the goods you have left, keeping 
that fact, however, to himself, and proclaiming you a swind- 
ler.” 


202 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ But my banker has funds of mine in his possession, and 
he certainly would scarcely believe that I would go off and 
leave my money behind/’ 

“ He might think it strange, it is true ; but the last thing 
that would occur to him would be the idea that you were 
shut up in the Castle of St. Angelo : so he would just take 
care of your money and await advices from you.” 

“You seem determined to make me believe that my case 
would have been almost hopeless, doctor, had I not had the 
good fortune to encounter you,” said Alford, laughing. 

“ No, no ; not that, signor.,'' was the reply : “I simply 
want you to understand that when a man gets inside of these 
walls as a prisoner, he is in about the same position as the 
fly when he gets in the spider’s web. If you could know 
the story of that poor devil there,” pointing to the sick man, 
“ you would have some idea of what imprisonment in St. 
Angelo means. But tell me, signor, what you propose to 
do, and if I can serve you, I certainly will. ’ ’ 

“ I think my best plan would be to write to Mr. , 

the United States Minister, and tell him of my situation, ” 
said Alford. 

“ That you cannot do without the consent of the gov- 
ernor, or commandafite, of the fortress. I am going to him 
now to get permission to remove old Giacomo to more com- 
fortable quarters. He is a French officer, and, what is 
more, a gentleman ; and, if you choose, I will tell him what 
you have told me, and I have no doubt but that he will per- 
mit you to communicate with the diplomatic agent of your 
government. In the mean time, I suppose, you would pre- 
fer to occupy the cell which it was originally intended you 
should. ’ ’ 

“ On the contrary, doctor, I would prefer to remain here 
— if I can. The companionship even of the poor wretch 
yonder will be better than solitude ; and if you could pre- 
vail upon the jailer to leave his lantern with us it would be 
a most acceptable boon. I have never known what the 
blackness of darkness is until within the last few hours, and 
I pray God that I may never know it again.” 

“Very well,” replied the doctor, who was evidently a 
kind-hearted man, “ I will see what I can do. Come, 
Antonio, we must go.” 

“ And what about this gentleman ?” asked Antonio. “ I 
suppose he wants his breakfast by this time ?” 

“ No, you can leave him where he is — I don’t suppose it 
makes any difference to you — and if he wants his breakfast, 
you can bring it to him.” 


THE OLD PRISONER OF ST ANGELO. 


203 


“ But Giacomo^ signor ? — we can’t leave two prisoners to- 
gether, you know.” 

” Oh ! we’ll soon take Giacomo out of here, and you didn’t 
put the other in — so no blame can attach to you — and he 
prefers to remain where he is.” 

“ That is so, signor., and if he prefers it, all right.” 

So saying, he picked up his lantern, which he had set 
down on the floor, and opened the door. 

” Stay,” said the doctor, as if a new thought had oc- 
curred to him ; 1 don’t like to leave a dying man in the 

dark : leave your light ; it will be some comfort to him. ’ ’ 

” But I have no right to do that, signor dottore.,'' said the 
other, looking at his companion in amazement. 

“You are ordered to do whatever I tell you for the good 
of my patients,” said the doctor authoritatively, “ and I do 
not choose that this old man should be left to die, perhaps, 
in the dark.” 

Antonio made no more objections, but sat the lantern 
down, and the two departed. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE OLD PRISONER OF ST. ANGELO. 

Alford picked up the lantern that the jailer had left be- 
hind, thankful to the good physician who had procured him 
such a blessing, and hung it upon a great hook that was 
driven in the wall. He then went to the rude couch on 
which his fellow-prisoner lay, where he stood for a long time 
gazing upon him. He was an old man, and his hair lay in 
gray festoons, coiling, like the serpent locks of Medusa, 
about his neck and shoulders. The artist had never seen a 
face so withered and careworn, and he would have consid- 
ered his own sufferings well worth the sacrifice if he could 
have had a scrap of paper and a pencil to sketch him ; but 
he searched his pockets in vain, he had left his sketch-book 
in the pocket of the coat which he had taken off when he 
went to spend the evening at the Westons’. The man was 
to all appearance asleep ; but the steady gaze of his fellow- 
prisoner seemed at last to rouse him. 

“Is that you, Antonio?” he asked, opening his eyes, 
which Alford perceived were lustreless, like those of a blind 
man. 


204 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“No,** said the young man, “it is not Antonio — he is 
gone.’* 

“ No,** said the other, “ you are not Antonio, nor the 
kind doctor — I know that by your voice, for I can scarcely 
see you ; but who are you, then ?’’ 

“ I am a prisoner, like yourself.’* 

“ A prisoner !** said the old man, in a voice full of an- 
guish, “ a prisoner ! Then God have mercy on you, for man 
will have none. You are young, too ; I know that — the old 
speak not as you do — and I was young when I came here. 
O Dio ! how young and happy I was before this misfortune 
happened to me ! I could weep,” he continued with a few 
convulsive gasps, “ weep for you, poverello; but the fountain 
of my tears has long since dried up — and no wonder, with 
the rivers of tears I have shed.” 

Alford did all he could to comfort him, and told him that 
he expected to be released in a few hours — or days, at the 
worst.” 

“ Ah ! signor .p' said Giacomo, “ for 1 perceive that you 
are a gentleman, and not an Italian either, I think — you 
know not how hard it is to get outside of these walls when 
you have once been brought inside of them. I was brought 
here years ago — how many I cannot tell now — and hope for 
a long time kept me up. I was a stalwart man then ; but 
you see me now : my strength gone, my body shrivelled, 
and my sight faded away in the dark existence to which I 
have been doomed. * * 

“ Tell me,” said Alford, “ tell me what brought you to 
this unhappy pass. * * 

“It is a long story, signor and I fear it would weary 
you.” 

Alford assured him that it would not, and this is the tale 
to which he listened : 

‘ ‘ My name is Giacomo Mola, and I was born and bred 
among the mountains which surround Subiaco. My 
father had been a shepherd before me, and I was content to 
live and die as he had lived and died. 

“ I had a sister, a handsome, active girl, and we two 
alone inhabited the old home ; the rest, more ambitious, 
having scattered abroad in the hope of bettering their lot. 

“ I worked a little piece of land around our cottage, and 
it yielded us vegetables and a few fruits, which, with the 
milk that we took from the goats, and the cheese we made 
ourselves, was quite sufficient for our simple wants. So we 
were content and happy, and would gladly have lived thus, 


THE OLD PRISONER OF ST. ANGELO. 


205 


envying none, offending none, if we might have done so. 
But it would seem as though man is never satisfied to see his 
fellow-man living in peace and quiet : there are always some 
roaming about, like Satan, seeking whom they may devour. 

It was my sister’s duty, besides her house-keeping, to 
take the milch goats sometimes into Subiaco to sell their milk, 
which she took from them there on the spot for those who 
wished it, and also to tend the flock whenever I was obliged 
to stay at home to cultivate the ground. She was ten years 
younger than myself— just approaching womanhood — and 
remarkably pretty ; straight as an arrow, with large, dark 
eyes, black hair, dark complexion, with the fine, rich color 
in her cheeks which the most of our mountain women have. 

“ Her beauty soon attracted the attention of the young 
gallants of Subiaco, and their flattering speeches must have 
made some impression on her, inexperienced as she was in 
the ways of the world, for in a little while she began to ex- 
hibit signs of personal vanity, and lo manifest some distaste 
for the humble lot to which she was born. I felt sorry for 
the child, seeing that she was unhappy, and I tried to com- 
fort her, telling her that it was much better to remain con- 
tent with what God had given her than to purchase the 
pleasures and vanities she craved at the expense of her inno- 
cence ; for she was one of a class that cannot rise in this 
country, but must remain the bond-slaves they are born. 

“ The nobleman whose tenant I was had a son, a gay 
cavaliere., who had become quite notorious for success in his 
affairs of love in and about Subiaco ; for he never hesitated 
at employing any device, no matter how criminal it might 
be, to accomplish his purposes. It so happened, one un- 
lucky day, that this young man met Berta, and was so 
struck with her beauty, that he at once conceived a passion 
for her. 

“ It was easy enough for him to find out all he wished to 
know about her — who she was, where she lived, and the pas- 
tures her flock was accustomed to browse upon. He did 
not question the girl herself on these points, however, keep- 
ing sedulously out of her sight after he had once seen her ; 
for the devilish design he had formed might have been frus- 
trated had her attention been attracted to him. 

“ I don’t know when this occurred ; but I suddenly no- 
ticed a change in Berta one day — a change which must have 
been coming over her for some time. Her cheeks, which 
had always been round and blooming, had become thin and 
colorless, and her manner, heretofore vivacious and 
sprightly, was listless and weary. I know not how it was 


2o6 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


that I didn’t remark these things before I did ; but perhaps 
the alteration came over her so gradually that it did not at- 
tract my notice until it became very marked and decided. 
Be that as it may, I felt convinced that something was 
wrong, and determined to watch her. With this in view, I 
one day told her that I should remain at home to work in 
the garden, and bid her take charge of the flock. As soon 
as she was fairly on the road to the pasturage, I hastened 
by a short cut to the spot near which I knew she would 
come, and hid myself behind a large rock. 

“ I had not been long stationed in my hiding-place when 
she came walking quickly, and evidently paying but little 
heed to the animals under her care, for they were scattered 
and straggling about in every direction. 

“ Shortly after Berta’s arrival I heard a peculiar whistle. 
I had heard the same several times before, when 1 had been 
out with the goats, and had always thought it the note of 
some bird. Now I was to find out my mistake ; for as soon 
as the sound reached her ears, the girl began to sing a 
stanza from a popular love ditty, and in another moment the 
cavaliere^ whom I knew very well by sight, stood beside her. 
He was dressed in the costume of a cacciatore (game-keeper), 
doubtless for the purpose of deceiving her with regard to his 
true condition in life ; but I recognized him at once in 
spite of the disguise, and my heart sank within me. 

“ Gayly slipping his arm around Berta’s waist he kissed 
her several times, with no show of resistance on her part, 
and then, his arm still encircling her, they talked long and 
earnestly together, only interrupting their conversation to 
kiss each other passionately every now and then. I could 
not hear what they said, but I could see toward the end that 
he was pleading with her for something, and she, seeming 
to resist his persuasive eloquence at first* eventually yielded 
the point, whatever it was, when, with a long embrace, they 
parted. 

“ I could have followed and killed him if I had wished to 
do so, but I did not ; for I knew that would not bring back 
my sister’s happiness, and would bring me to the scaffold. 
I have often wished that I had done so, signor j for then I 
should have died, and death would have been far preferable 
to what I have suffered. God forgive me if the thought has 
been wrong ; but I couldn’t help it. 

“ As soon as her lover was out of sight, I hastened to 
Berta’s side. She did not see me, for she sat looking on the 
ground, thinking of him who had just left her ; and nof 


THE OLD PRISONER OE ST, ANGELO. 


207 


until I spoke did she know that I was near. She started up 
in confusion when she heard my voice. 

‘ Berta,’ 1 said, ‘ do you know who this young man is 
with whom you have just been speaking ? ’ 

“ ‘ O my brother ! ’ she cried, ‘ I know he is Francesco 
Pardi, with whom you have a vendetta — he told me so him- 
self. But be not angry with me. Surely you can forget and 
forgive for my sake, for I love him. ’ 

“ ‘ Francesco Pardi ! ’ I said, ‘ I never heard of any such 
person, nor do I bear malice against any one. The man 
has lied to you, ragazzad 

“ ‘You have no vendetta with Francesco ! ’ she exclaimed 
exultingly, not seeming to have comprehended all I had 
said ; ‘ ah ! then you will consent to our marriage, and 
there will be no need of concealment. He loves me, 
brother, and I — oh, how I do love him ! But he thought you 
were on bad terms with him, and has just persuaded me to 
wed him without your knowledge, trusting to obtaining your 
forgiveness afterwards. Oh, how happy we shall be I ’ and 
she danced about with glee. 

“ It was hard, signor, to be obliged to destroy at pnce 
and forever the happiness of this unfortunate creature, who 
had been made the victim of a designing villain ; but what 
could I do ? I must save her from dishonor, if it were not 
already too late. She had talked so rapidly that I had not 
been able to check her ; but now, when she came to a stop, 
I looked at her with an affected anger that frightened her, 
while my heart bled for her. „ 

‘ ‘ ‘ Girl ! ’ I cried, ‘ are you mad ? I tell you I know no 
Francesco Pardi ! This man has deceived you, and you 
may imagine what sort of a marriage you are about to make 
when I tell you that his name is il Conte Silvani. ’ 

“ There was no need to say more : she had fallen upon 
the ground in a swoon. When she revived again she arose 
and followed me home with the air of one whose life was 
utterly broken. The spirit seemed to be entirely gone out of 
her from that hour, and she made no objections when I pro- 
posed to take her up among the mountain fastnesses to leave 
her with one of our brothers, who, driven by persecution and 
oppression, had taken to the life of a bandit. 

“ From that day I date the beginning of my misfortunes. 
The young nobleman — it seems a mockery to call such 
scoundrels noblemen — convinced that I had conveyed my 
sister beyond his reach, never ceased in his efforts to ruin 
me. He finally accomplished his purpose by accusing me 
of being a member of the Carbonari — managing to have some 


2o8 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


illegal books and papers concealed in my miserable hut, 
where the police, instigated by him, found them. 

“Although I could neither read nor write, these were 
taken as evidence against me, and I was put to the torture 
to make me confess that of which I knew nothing. The 
fearful trial I bore as long as 1 could, and then, to save my- 
self from further agony, confessed — to what ? to a lie. 

‘ ‘ Having confessed to being one of a society of which I 
had never heard but once or twice in my life, I was made to 
undergo yet another strain on my already shattered limbs, 
in order to extort from me the names of my supposed ac- 
complices. But in this they failed. I could not bring my- 
self to inculpate innocent people in an imaginary conspiracy 
— not even to save my life ; and so, when I was nearly dead, 
I was thrown into an underground dungeon a thousand 
times worse than this, where I often had cause to wish that 
I had died upon the rack. I was removed from that horri- 
ble place at the instance of the kind doctor who was here 
awhile ago ; but not until I had spent many long, weary 
years there. 

“The heartless wretch who caused me all this misery 
came to see me several times during the early part of my im- 
prisonment. There being no one else present at these inter- 
views, he candidly confessed that he had accused me solely 
to satisfy his thirst for revenge, because I had frustrated his 
wicked designs on the only creature in the world that I 
loved. He offered to use his influence to obtain my release, 
if I would promise to deliver my sister up to his lust ; but. I 
repelled his proposition with indignation, and told him there 
was One who would judge between us ; but he only laughed 
scornfully, and left me to my fate. I often wonder if he is 
still alive, and if he ever thinks of the man he has left to rot 
in a living grave. 

“ This is my story, signor; and, thank God, it will soon 
be complete, and I will be beyond the reach of the torments 
which men invent for each other’s misery.” 

The old man, who had stopped several times during the 
course of his narrative to rest — his strength seemed too far 
gone to sustain a long-continued effort — now turned himself 
over wearily and lay perfectly still, and his auditor, after 
looking at him with eyes full of compassion for a few min- 
utes, sat down on the floor — there was no other place to sit 
— to ponder over the pitiful fate of this poor mortal, whose 
lot, humble though it was, was not so lowly as to place him 
beyond the reach of malice. 


THE OLD PRISONER OF ST ANGELO, 


209 


He was roused from his musing by the sliding of bolts and 
grating of a key in the lock on the door of his cell, and the 
next instant the turnkey and the doctor entered. 

“ Come, signor^'" said the latter ; “ I have told the com- 
mandante about you, and he desires to see you ; come with 
me.” 

Alford arose with alacrity, and thanked his new found 
friend earnestly for his kindness. 

” There are no thanks due me, signor^'' said the doctor : 
” I have only done what it was right that I should do, and 
no man deserves any special credit for doing right. Gia- 
como,” turning to the old prisoner, ” you will soon be re- 
moved from this place, I hope — patience, my poor friend.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, dottore replied Giacomo. ” You 

and Antonio are the only friends I have known for many a 
year, and I will pray for you — ’tis all I can do.” 

” ’Tis enough, Giacomo. Addio.” 

Alford went to the rude couch on which the old man lay, 
and bade him farewell, and then followed the doctor out of 
the cell, the turnkey having preceded them. 

After traversing several dark corridors, they came to the 
open daylight. It was near noonday, and the glare of the 
sunshine so dazzled the young man for an instant, that he 
put his hands out helplessly in front of him, like one struck 
suddenly blind. The doctor, perceiving the movement, and 
knowing the cause, seized him by the arm and led him 
along, and in a few minutes he was all right again. 

Entering the commandante's office, they found him busy 
at his desk writing. 

” Ah, signor !” he said, looking at Alford, and perceiving 
at once that he was a gentleman, ‘‘ I am just making a state- 
ment of your case to send to the Minister of Police. I have 
given the Minister a synopsis of your story as you told it to 
our friend the doctor here — by the way, gentlemen, sit down, ” 
seeming suddenly to recollect that they were still standing — 
” and I see but one difficulty in the way of your immediate 
release ; for this Conte Fiascone^ as he called himself, is evi- 
dently an impostor — anybody with the smallest fraction of 
common-sense might know that. I have no doubt the com- 
missary who examined you at the police-office knew it well 
enough ; but these fellows are sometimes the veriest 
fnoitchards — I know no word in Italian to express my mean- 
ing so well — and if they happen to take a dislike to any one 
placed momentarily in their power, will do him all the spite 
they can. This fellow probably saw that you were a gentle- 
man, and had never had a chance to domineer over one of 


210 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


the class before, and it did him good to be able to consign 
you to a dungeon, even though it should only be for one 
night. But it might have been much worse if it had not 
been for the accident that placed you in the cell occupied 
by one of our good doctor’s patients.” 

‘ ‘ I am a thousand times obliged to the doctor, and your- 
self also, il signor corntnandantey' said Alford ; ” but surely 
in a few days, at the furthest, the truth with regard to this 
affair would have been discovered ; you yourself would have 
found it out.” 

‘‘It is not probable — hardly possible, signor, I know 
literally nothing about the prisoners confined in this fortress, 
except such old standing cases as that of old Giacomo. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But I could have reported my case to you through the 
jailer.” 

The commandante laughed. “You evidently know noth- 
ing of prison discipline, signor,” he said. “ The jailer 
might have listened to your complaints, but he would never 
have repeated them ; and for a very good reason — he would 
have been immediately punished and dismissed from his 
post for talking with a prisoner. But, fortunately for you, 
the affair has turned out differently to what your friend the 
commissary expected it would ; and all we have to do is to 
represent your case in the most favorable light possible to 
the Minister of Police. I have told him in my statement 
here, that I believe this Conte Fiascofie to be an impostor, 
and called his attention to something which 1 am sure will 
convince him that 1 am right, without his having to refer to 
the list of noblemen now residing in Rome.” 

“And what may that something be,” asked Alford, “ if 
you have no objection to telling me?” 

“Ha, ha!” laughed the com7nandante. He was a tall 
man, with drooping gray mustache and a stern brow ; but 
there was a merry twinkle in his eyes at times that belied the 
sternness of brow above them. “ You haven’t perceived it 
then,” he said, and his eyes sparkled with mirth. 

‘ ‘ I cannot say that there is any reason that I should know 
the fellow to be an impostor, except that he tried to rob 
me,” said Alford, “ and even then he may be what he calls 
himself. A man may be a count and a thief too — I have 
heard of such things before.” 

“ Ha, ha !” laughed the officer again. “ Don’t you see 
the joke, signor dottore 

The doctor, who had had nothing to say all this time, 
now protested that he could not see any joke in the whole 
affair. 


THE OLD PRISONER OF ST. ANGELO. 


211 


‘‘Well/' said the other, laughing heartily now, “ I can 
take some credit, to myself, then. Why, don’t you perceive, 
gentlemen, that the fellow, assuming the name on the spur 
of the moment, chose the first word that came into his head, 
and that was the brand of one of your favorite Italian wines 
— Fiasconel There maybe a Conte Fiascone^ but I don’t 
believe it. He was evidently thinking of the number of 
bottles of Fiascone he would drink when he had the signor s 
money safe in his pocket.” 

The Frenchman chuckled a good deal over what he con- 
sidered his brilliant discovery. ” Aha !” he said, ” he was 
a bold fellow, that, and ingenious too ; audit really seems a 
pity that he was not successful. However, 1 suppose you 
will hardly agree with me there, signor,” addressing himself 
I to Alford. ” But, as I told you, there seems to me but one 
difficulty in the way of your immediate release ; for I am 
certain, when they come to look for this Conte Fiascone, he 
will not be found, at least under that name.” 

” And that difficulty, signor commandante V 

” Is your refusal to tell from whom you got the purse 
which you unfortunately had in your hand when arrested.” 

‘‘It is very true,” said Alford, ‘‘ that I refused to tell 
the commissary from whom I got it — he appeared to be such 
a dog — but I have no objections to telling you, signor, or the 
Minister of Police either.” 

‘‘ Ah !” said the^other, ‘‘ that simplifies the matter ; and 
if you will be so good as to tell me all about it. I will just 
include it in my statement. ’ ’ 

Alford then related as much of the history of the purse as 
he deemed necessary, the commandante looking at him the 
while with a grim smile. 

‘‘ Aha !” he said, when the young man had finished ; ‘‘ so 
then there was U7ia bella signorina mixed up in the affair. 
You are lucky, signor^ to have so generous an innamorata : 
the story runs all the other way in most cases.” 

‘‘ The young lady is my betrothed, signor said Alford, 
flushing up. He thought he was justified in calling her so 
under the circumstances ; she was his betrothed to all in- 
tents and purposes, though there had been no promises made, 
no vows exchanged between them. 

‘‘ Pardon me,” said the officer, ‘‘ if my remarks have 
seemed offensive ; I really did not intend any thing of the 
kind. On the contrary, I admire the lady who could sacri- 
fice her money thus on the altar of love or friendship — 
there are few who do it in these days, I assure you — they are 
more likely to sacrifice the lover and the friend when the 


212 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


question of money comes in. And now, signor, while I fin- 
ish my statement here, which I shall get you to look over, 
and correct — if I have made any mistakes — before giving it 
to my secretary to be copied, you can sit there,” making a 
motion towards a table that was strewn with pens, ink-bot- 
tles, and paper, ” and make a communication to the 
United States Minister, and I will despatch it at the same 
time with my own communication to the Minister of Po- 
lice.” 

As Alford moved towards the table, the doctor arose to go. 
He was a quiet, thoughtful man, one of those who, having 
done their part faithfully, are content to let others finish 
what they have begun, and, mayhap, reap all the credit. 
“ And Giacomo, il signor cornmandafite V ' he said ; ” I sup- 
pose his case will be attended to as soon as practicable.” 

” I have already communicated your advice to those who 
have authority in his case, signor dottore.,'' replied the com- 
mandante.^ ” and I have no doubt we shall receive permis- 
sion to remove the old man during the course of the day.” 

” Thanks, signor.,'' said the doctor, and was about to re- 
tire ; but Alford seized his hand, and detained him a few 
minutes to assure him of his eternal gratitude for what he 
had done for him. 

” I have done nothing much, signor,” said the good doc- 
tor. 

” Ah ! nothing much to y^ou, maybe,” said the young man 
earnestly ; ” but a great deal to me — more than mere thanks 
can sufficiently repay you for.” 

Late that afternoon Alford received a visit from the 
United States Consul, whom Mr. , the Minister Pleni- 

potentiary, had sent with an order from the Minister of Po- 
lice for his discharge from custody, and in a few days — the 
precious purse having been restored to him — he left Rome. 


CHAPTER XX. 

HOMEWARD BOUND. 

Mr. Hapton Still occupied Oliver MaxwelPs little room 
at Hagget's. He had recovered sufficiently to leave his 
bed, but had not as yet gone abroad : indeed, he had no 
desire to do so, had he been able. The old merchant was 
terribly broken. His head, heretofore held erect with 
manly dignity — that dignity which is the offspring of 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


213 


virtue, not pride, which latter is the evidence of an overween- 
ing self-esteem — was bowed, and his face was marked by 
those lines with which care brands its victims, old and 
young alike. This noble man, to whom wealth had been a 
blessing and a joy, because it enabled him to relieve the 
suffering, shield the weak, reassure the despairing, and fill 
the hearts of all who came within the radius of his noble 
life with faith, hope, and charity, was reduced to the lowest 
ebb of poverty. Like Job, he had always lived a godly life ; 
and, as in the case of the old patriarch, it seemed as though 
the God in whom he trusted had deserted him at last. 

At the very threshold, as it were, he had lost his fair 
young wife, and then his only brother. He had mourned 
the loss, but had never complained against the decrees of 
the Almighty One who had given and who had taken away. 
The loss seemed rather to ennoble the man ; for these, the 
sole personal claimants on his interest, irrevocably passed 
I beyond his sphere, his whole attention was turned to poor 
humanity, for whom his heart was full of sympathy and 
love. And now, in his old age, had come this last blow. 
He did not ask why he, of all others, had been chosen thus 
to suffer ; but though he felt his great loss, for himself and 
others, he accepted his lot with an abiding faith in the wis- 
' dom of Him “ who doeth all things welL” The fear of the 
, Lord was strong within the man. 

j The clerk who had robbed him was one whom he had res- 
cued from poverty and degradation. He had been a drunk- 
i ard, through which vice he had sunk low in the scale of so- 
i ciety ; but he had never been accused of any crime, save 
that one against himself. Mr. Hapton had found him in a 
: half-starved and miserable condition, and had given him 
succor, and employment, which was still better. The man 
had eventually entirely reformed in his habits ; and having 
j good abilities as a business agent, had found favor in his 
employer’s sight, and been gradually advanced to the chief 
managing clerkship of the establishment. During all the 
; years in which he had had control of a large part of the busi- 
ness, nothing had ever been discovered to his discredit. He 
was a quiet, retiring man in his disposition, and lived mod- 
estly — so modestly, indeed, that his fellow clerks said he was 
laying by money — and his sudden descent into the very 
depths of crime seemed unaccountable. Had he been work- 
ing himself up to the consummation of this great financial 
stroke all this time ? or had some evil spirit seized upon him 
in a moment of supreme weakness and tempted him to do a 
wrong as foul almost as murder ? Who could tell ? 


214 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


When the fact of Pringle’s villany was established with- 
out a doubt, and the enormous amount of his peculations 
was ascertained, it became apparent to every one that his 
employer — his benefactor — was ruined. The effect of the 
theft of so large a sum was like that produced by the sweep- 
ing away of a railroad bridge just as the train is rushing 
upon it at full speed : sudden disaster and distress, wreck 
and ruin. The shock to the one most affected was some- 
thing terrific. He was a strong man — strong morally, in- 
tellectually, and physically ; but still he was only a man 
after all, and what wonder that he was stunned, prostrated, 
and made weak and helpless for a time ! 

Just as soon as he became aware of the full extent of his 
losses, Mr. Hapton had turned every thing over to his cred- 
itors — he saw there was no help for it — and retired to Hag- 
get’s, where he was seized with a nervous fever ; it was the 
nervous man that had succumbed, not the moral nor intel- 
lectual man. And now he was recovering, and began once 
more to think. As I said before, the fear of the Lord was 
strong within him. He never wavered in his faith ; but he 
prayed earnestly to God to give him strength to bear his 
misfortunes with patience and fortitude. 

He was not ashamed to accept, for the time being, the 
charity of his humble friends ; and they were only too glad 
to repay thus, in a measure, somewhat of all they owed to 
him : indeed, they would joyfully have offered him a large 
share of their little savings had they dared ; but knowing 
that such a proposition would be more likely to give pain 
than pleasure, they contented themselves with ministering to 
his comfort in every way they could devise. 

And now, when the rich had deserted him, the poor came 
to the rescue. Many little offerings — humble gifts of grate- 
ful hearts — were sent by those he had sympathized with and 
helped in his days of prosperity, and it gave him unspeaka- 
ble delight to find that the poor of God’s earth did not for- 
get their friends. Alas, how quickly the rich desert one of 
their own class when financial misfortune overtakes him ! 
It is the old story of the wounded deer hunted and gored to 
death by his fellows. But the poor, who have never known 
the distinction of wealth — except, perchance as an evil to 
themselves — stick to each other, and those who fall back 
among them from the front ranks, through sorrow and 
through shame. 

When the convalescent began to think, his first thoughts 
were of that youth whom he had learned to love so well, and 
who was now left without the means of support in a foreign^ 


HOMEWARD BOUND, 


215 


land. Before he was taken sick he had thought of Alford, 
but he had hoped that something might be saved out of the 
wreck of his property ; and as soon, or almost as soon, as 
he discovered that all, all was lost, the fever had laid its 
hot hand upon him, and for a time his mind went all astray. 
As soon as his mental faculties recovered their equilibrium, 
his thoughts returned into the same channel, and he was 
greatly troubled. He took the little tailor into his counsel. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,'’ said Hagget, as soon as the 
subject was broached, “ I beg your pardon, sir, if I have 
been officious, but I took the liberty of writing to Mr. 
Alford as soon as you were taken sick. I thought it would 
be best.” 

” Perhaps it was, under the circumstances,” said the 
other. ” I was about to write to him myself, now that I am 
able to do so. I am very much troubled about him. If he 
should desire to return to America — and he probably will — 
I am not sure that he will have sufficient funds to defray his 
expenses : he may have, but I very much doubt it ; and I 
don’t know what to do about it, for, as you know, I have 
been entirely stripped of every thing, with the exception of 
my wearing apparel, my wife’s portrait, and my watch, 
which latter was a gift from my father ; for which reason I 
was allowed to keep it, though there were some who ob- 
jected to that. Now what I was going to propose is, that 
you should take the watch, a very valuable one, to some 
pawnbroker.” 

Here Hagget, who had been fidgeting nervously while the 
other was speaking, broke in. ” Not by any means, sir,” 
he said, with a curious mixture of earnestness and hesita- 
tion in his manner ; ” not by any means would I do such a 
thing. No doubt the young man will find his way home as 
many another in a like plight has done ; but don’t go and 
pawn your watch, sir, your father’s gift — no, no, not by any 
means ; bad luck would come of it, as sure as you are liv- 
ing, sir.” 

” But what, then, am I to do, Hagget?” asked the old 
man, who never seemed to think for a moment of asking the 
tailor to lend him money, for the simple reason, it is to be 
supposed, that it would have been about equivalent to ask- 
ing him to give it to him. I can’t leave the boy to make 
his way home, as you say, the best way he can.” 

” Well, to tell you the truth, sir,” said Hagget, getting 
nervous again, ” there is no need of doing any thing.” 

” No need of doing any thing ! What do you mean ?” 

” Why, sir, you see,” continued the tailor, growing still 


2I6 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


more nervous, and looking behind him as if he had an idea 
of running away as soon as he had said his say, “ you see, 
sir, I never thought of the money when I first wrote to Mr. 
Janies, but about a week after — it was my wife thought of it, 
sir ; women always think of things that men never dream of 
— but about a week after Elspeth asked me if I had sent him 
any money to get home on. As I told you, sir, I had never 
thought of that ; but I wrote again without delay — and — 
and — sent him a hundred and fifty dollars. You must ex- 
cuse me, sir, for taking so great a liberty ; but you were 
sick, and not in your — your — beg your pardon, sir.” 

” You mean to say I was not in my right mind,” said Mr. 
Hapton, smiling. ” Don’t hesitate to say what you wish to 
say, Hagget ; there is no offence in it.” 

” Thanks, sir, thanks,” said the tailor, placed somewhat 
at his ease by the other’s manner. ” You see some people 
don’t like to be told such things.” 

” They are very foolish people, then ; that’s all.” 

” I dare say they are, sir — no doubt of it.” 

” But about this money, Hagget,” said the merchant, re- 
garding his little friend with a smile of pleasure. After his 
recent experience there was an odor of sweetness in this 
noble spirit of generosity manifested in one so lowly that 
was pleasant to his soul. ” It is a large sum for one in 
your position to lend without interest, and perhaps for a 
long time.” 

” I can very well syjare it, sir, I assure you,” said Hagget 
hastily : ” it’s no inconvenience to me — none whatever. I 
am only glad to be able — ” To repay a portion of the debt 
of gratitude he owed the other, he was about to add ; but 
an instinctive feeling of delicacy told him it was best left 
unsaid, and he checked himself. 

Mr. Hapton probably understood this, for he said no 
more on the subject ; and in due course of time a letter 
came from Alford, written in Paris, saying he was on his 
way home. This letter was addressed to Hagget ; and it 
was evident, from its contents, that the young man had left 
Rome before the arrival of the remittance ; but the thought- 
ful tailor considered it best to say nothing about that to kis 
lodger, simply informing him that he had received the let- 
ter, and the arrival of the writer might be expected soon. 

At this time Oliver Maxwell had not yet returned from 
the country. He was detained at home by the illness of his 
aunt, and had written to say that he did not know how long 
he should be away, as there were fears that the old lady 
might never arise from her bed again. 


HOMEWARD BOUND, 


217 


Alford, as we have seen, had left Rome a few days after 
his release from imprisonment. He had gone by the short- 
est route to Paris, in which city he stopped two days. He 
was sitting in a cafe the morning after his arrival, when 
who should come in but Dimplechin, who expressed himself 
greatly delighted to meet him. He was as good-hearted and 
simple as ever ; and when he heard Alford’s story — that is, 
as much of it as the artist saw fit to tell him — insisted on 
lending him money. Alford thanked him sincerely for his 
kind offer ; but assured him that he had quite enough of 
that precious article to carry him comfortably to the end of 
his journey. If I were to accept a loan from you now, 
my friend,” he said, ” there is no telling when I should be 
able to repay you.” 

” Aw — but, my dear feller,” said Dimplechin, “what 
diff’wence will that make ? If you don’t wepay it to me you 
can wepay it to my heirs, you know — it will be all the same. 
But, to tell the twuth, I don’t know if I shall ever have any 
heirs — at least in a certain way : I haven’t yet got over my 
— my — well, you know what I mean.” 

Alford made no response to this remark, but looked in 
the weak face before him, over which had swept a curiously 
ludicrous expression of melancholy, and smiled. 

“ Oh ! you needn’t smile,” said the other, who did not per- 
ceive the sympathetic undercurrent in the smile ; “ it’s the 
vewy twuth I’m telling you. There’s not another like her, 
Alfword, ” and Alford fully agreed with him there, “ there’s 
not another like her in all the world ; and I don’t think, 
after losing her, that I could put up with a — a common sort 
of woman, you know.” 

Alford did not smile again, though he really felt inclined 
to laugh outright at this poor specimen of humanity aspiring 
to mate with one of the noblest of the other sex. 

“ I suppose Tulip is still in Rome,” said Dimplechin, 

1 after a few moments’ silence, during which he seemed to be 
1 trying to master his feelings, which had apparently got the 
I better of him. 

“ He had gone to Naples with Mrs. and Miss Weston 
I when I left Rome myself,” responded the other. 

“Not mawwied to the old lady yet, I suppose ?” 

“No.” 

} “I wonder if he ever will be. I tell you what, Alfword, 
; that feller owes me nearly a thousand dollars, and I don’t 
‘ believe I’ll ever see a cent of it.” 

“I don’t believe you will.” 

' “ It’s a good thing for me that my governor never asks 


2i8 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


any questions about the way the money goes — he seems to 
think it’s his business to make it, and mine to spend it — and 
never says a word, but just hands it over whenever I ask for 
it.’' 

‘‘ You are fortunate in having so complaisant a banker,” 
said Alford. 

” Aw — so I am. I’ll just tell you one thing — to give you 
some idea, you know. What between bowoing and playing 
cards, that feller Tulip has got me in for about thwee thou- 
sand — he’s a sharper at cards, I can tell you.” 

” I’ve no doubt he is,” said Alford. ” I told you that 
you were foitunate in your banker, Dimplechin ; but I 
can’t say as much for you as regards your friends. Tulip is 
what the French call a chevalier d" industrie., and the less 
you have to do with such gentry the better ; the governor, 
as you call him, may not always be so complaisant, and 
even if he is, it is not very pleasant to feel that you have 
been the victim of a swindler.” 

“Yes, yes, I know that,” said the other ; “ but what can 
a feller do, you know ?” 

“ Cut them whenever you find them out. It costs a little 
to learn, I know — it has already cost you a great deal — but 
it would be better for )'ou to join the Bohemians, who will 
not victimize you to any great extent.” 

“ Yes, I know all that,” said Dimplechin ; “ but how is 
one to know ? We meet ’em in society ; they behave like 
gentlemen, and are tweated as such — aw — you know — and 
what’s a feller to do ? A feller’s money’s gone before he 
knows it.” 

“ That’s very true,” said Alford, laughing. “ The chei^^ 
alier d' Industrie is met with in the very best society. The 
French have given him a name ; but he belongs to all na- 
tionalities — he is a cosmopolitan. He dresses as well as the 
richest — for a very good reason, his clothes are never paid 
for. His manners are usually unexceptional, and he is often 
very handsome, and a great pet with the ladies — who are 
loath to believe any evil of him — he is so handsome, or so 
very obliging. He generally wears a sounding aristocratic 
name — perhaps his own, perhaps assumed — and even goes 
so far at times as to prefix a title to it. He is sometimes a 
professed critic of art, literature, and music, and he is be- 
lieved in by those more ignorant than himself. But as I 
told you, it costs something to find him out ; when found 
out, however, steer clear of him — a pickpocket will not rob 
you with less compunction, if you are fool enough to give 
him the chance. But your friend Tulip does not belong to 


HOMEWARD BOUND, 


219 


this higher class of genius that I have been describing. He 
is not handsome, nor does he wear the aristocratic nom de 
guerre,, and his manners are very objectionable. He is a 
rougher species of the same genus, and I don’t know but 
that his acquaintanceship is more deleterious to young men 
than that of his more refined prototype ; for while plucking 
his victim in every conceivable way, he teaches him to love 
low vices that the other instinctively shrinks from. How- 
ever, I don’t want you to think I have set up for a 
moral lecturer. You may think me impertinent to offer my 
advice when you are, no doubt, as well able to take care of 
yourself as another.” 

” No, no, Alfword,” said Dimplechin, ” ’pon my word, 
I’m much obliged to you. I know vewy well I’m not vewy 
bwight — though the governor thinks I’m a genius because I 
managed to scwatch through college, and can talk a little 
Fwench and Italian. I found out diff’went when I came 
abwoad. I’m all the time being taken in, you know ; and it 
seems as if a feller has to take me in half a dozen times or 
more before I weally find it out.” 

Alford laughed — he couldn’t help it — this innocent acr 
knowledgment was so thoroughly in keeping with the man 
who made it. “Well, at any rate, old fellow,” he said, 
“ you may rest assured I have said what I have to you out 
of pure friendship. I hate to see an honest, innocent lamb 
like you devoured by wolves in sheeps’ clothing.” 

“ Oh yes, I know, I know !” replied the other, “ and I’m 
weally much obliged to you ; but I weally am learning, I 
assure you. I haven’t been swindled out of more than five 
or ten dollars by the same man for quite a while — at least 
two months.” 

“ Well, that’s something,” said Alford, laughing again as 
he rose to go ; “ I’ve no doubt you’ll do pretty well after a 
while ; just keep on improving in worldly wisdom, and 
you’ll soon be able to say you are up to all the wicked ways 
of the world, and no man can come it over you.” 

“You’re laughing at me now, Alfword,” said Dimple- 
chin, linking his arm in that of his friend as he walked out 
of the cafe ; “ but I don’t mind, you know ; and I’m weal 
sowwy you’re going over — over the pond, you know. I just 
wish you’d stop in Pawis and paint pictures. I’ll buy every 
one you paint, if you will, and pay you whatever you ask for 
I ’em.” 

“ Thanks, thanks,” said Alford ; “ but that would never 
do, my dear friend. Even if I were not obliged to return 
to America, I could not permit you to enroll me in the ranks 


220 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


of those gentlemen who have lived off of you so long. Do 
you think I have been trying to rescue the lamb from the 
wolves only to devour him myself 

“ Ah ! well,” said Dimplechin, with a sigh, ** it seems hard 
for a feller to do you a favor, even though he begs to be al- 
lowed to do it. Come, then, you’ll take a cigar, at any rate.” 

” Most willingly,” replied Alford, accepting the proffered 
weed. ” That is a favor that one may reciprocate if he 
feels so inclined ; but in the case of two young men, like 
you and I, Dimplechin, my opinion is, that there should 
be no extraordinary favors accepted by either party — that 
is, if it is desired to preserve terms of equality and real 
friendship. Solomon has said, ‘ the borrower is the slave of 
the lender.’ He was wise enough to know this, without 
having to learn it through experience — for he certainly could 
have been no borrower — and it is the very truth ; unless the 
borrower happens to be one of those gentry who hide steal- 
ing under the cloak of borrowing. But, by George, I’m 
getting off upon the moral train again ; and if I keep on I 
may well take upon myself the popular role of moral lec- 
turer when I get back to America.” 

In a few days James Alford was on the ocean, having 
taken second-class passage on a Cunarder. Several books that 
he had purchased to beguile the time with yet lay untouched 
in his berth. After the short spell of sea-sickness by which 
he was afflicted had passed away, he found his own thoughts 
afforded him sufficient occupation without the aid of others’ 
thoughts. Though he pondered much and mournfully over 
the misfortunes of his kind friend Mr. Hapton, he found his 
fancy ever inclined to wander back to the sweet presence of 
her whom he had parted with but a little while ago. He 
had written her a long letter before leaving Rome, giving 
her an account of his adventures — or misadventures — and he 
had gone to the apartments in the Via Babuino, and taken a 
sorrowful leave of his friend Titto, impressing upon Nina 
the necessity of taking good care of him during the absence 
of his mistress. This visit — ostensibly to the bird, but in 
truth to the grave of buried joys, such as one pays to the 
grave of buried friends — had been a sort of consolation to 
him ; and he had wandered about in an aimless way after it, 
nervous and anxious, until he was started on his long jour- 
ney — that journey begun in sorrow and to end in the same. 

“Ah, God! when shall we meet again?” The cry 
which had leaped from his heart in his anguish came back 
to him now amid the roaring and noise of the steamer, and 
the sound of the dashing water. He strove to think of the 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


221 


immediate future which he was rapidly approaching — to 
mature some plan for the benefit of the man who had done 
so much for him ; but he could not fix his mind on any 
thing : his imagination would go back to that last sweet in- 
terview — sweet, yet bitter — the sweetest joy and bitterest sor- 
, row of his life had met in that supreme moment. 

When the steamer, with colors flying, and noise and bus- 
; tie on her busy deck, proudly ploughed her way up the mag- 
i nificent bay of New York, Alford’s books still lay unread in 
' his berth. He had not found a moment to spare for them. 
And what had he been doing all this time ? He could not 
tell. During the greater part of the thirteen days which the 
passage had occupied, he had been, as it were, in a dream. 

There was quite a number of passengers, both first- and 
second-class, on the ship, and when he saw the former 
1 promenading the quarter-deck from the place assigned to 
* himself and his fellow second-class mortals, his altered cir* 
cumstances were forcibly impressed on his mind. Among 
^ them were one or two whom he had met in society in Rome ; 
: but they did not recognize him — at least they did not seem 
^ to do so. Perhaps, not expecting to see an acquaintance, 
{ one whom they had associated with on terms of equality, 
mingling with the common herd, they really did not see him. 
A few weeks previous he would not have hesitated to claim 
; acquaintance with them ; but now he felt separated from 
them by an impassable barrier. The barrier was an imagin- 
ary line drawn on the deck of a ship, it is true ; but it rep- 
resented a like line which extends all around the world, and 
' ramifies in every direction on its surface — that line which 
separates wealth from poverty — the merinos from the com- 
mon kind of sheep — and radiates a subtile fire which germin- 
i ates, on the one side contempt, on the other hatred. These 
thoughts did not trouble him long — there were other mat- 
ters, far more important, to occupy his mind — and when, on 
landing at the dock in New York, he came in actual colli- 
sion with one of his quondam acquaintances, who uttered an 
exclamation, “ Hullo !” he did not wait to see if the 
speaker meant it as an ejaculation of recognition or merely 
as a protest against being hustled so roughly by a poor devil 
I who had to carry his own valise. 

He knew that Towling, whose lawsuit had terminated for- 
tunately for him, was then living and working in New York 
— that happy Bohemian had kept up a regular correspond- 
ence with him — but in his anxiety to reach the end of his 
journey would not stop, even for a day, to see his friend. 
iHe took the first train from Jersey City, and in a few hours 
found himself once more in Baltimore. 


222 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

ALFORD SUCCEEDS AS A PORTRAIT-PAINTER. 

I WILL not attempt to describe the meeting between Mr. 
Hapton and James Alford. It was like the meeting of 
father and son — that father stricken in his old age, reduced 
suddenly from affluence to poverty. The old man welcomed 
the young one with thanks to God who had brought him 
safely back. He was stronger now, and able to go about, if 
he chose, and having Alford to accompany him,' he went 
abroad for the first time. They took daily walks together, 
choosing always the quietest thoroughfares, and talking over 
their plans for the future. 

The young artist was desirous of establishing himself as a 
portrait-painter, hoping thus to make enough for their mut- 
ual support. He had some money left from the little store 
with which he had started from Rome — having travelled in 
the most economical fashion — but not enough to justify him 
in renting such a room and furnishing it in such style as 
would insure success in the branch of art he contemplated 
pursuing. I speak advisedly on this subject. The por- 
trait-painter, like those in many other professions, must 
have certain appearances of prosperity surrounding him to 
claim the consideration of the public. Let the greatest 
genius living establish himself in a garret, with two or three 
chairs and a table, and offer his services to the public, and 
the probability is that he will starve ; while the veriest 
dauber, with a little capital to back him, who takes posses- 
sion of the first floor, and surrounds himself with the acces- 
sories to be procured with money, will have more work to 
do than he will very well know how to get through with. 

Alford knew this well enough, and began to cast about for 
some employment that would not require any outlay of cap- 
ital. He went to the photographers — those men who, be- 
cause they make pictures by machinery with the aid of 
chemicals, dub themselves artists. They offered him work ; 
but what kind of work, and on what terms ? He was to 
color their pictures — even paint portraits — and receive for 
his labor one half the price paid by their customers. It was 
hard, but he had to accept what he felt he had no right, un- 
der existing circumstances, to refuse. So he set to work as 
a photographer’s drudge. 

Hardly had he started on this new road to fame and for- 


ALFORD SUCCEEDS AS A PORTRAIT-PAINTER. 223 

tune, when he received two letters from Europe — one from 
Rome, the other from Naples. The latter, he knew, was 
from Elenor, and opened it at once. It is unnecessary to 
transcribe it here. There may be a few — an unhappy few — 
who have never known what it is to receive a first love-let- 
ter ; but let us, who have had other experience, keep our 
blissful secret to ourselves, and not make those few utterly 
miserable by divulging it. The letter from Rome was sim- 
ply an inclosure containing Hagget’s letter with the remit- 
tance. Hagget had never said a word to him about it ; but 
Mr. Hapton had mentioned it to him, and spoken of their 
humble friend’s generosity in language full of tender emo- 
tion. Alford now carried the bill of exchange to the tailor, 
whom he thanked heartily for his kind intentions as he 
handed it back to him. 

“ But stop, Mr. James,” said Hagget, who was more at 
his ease with the young man than he was with the old mer- 
chant, “ stop, sir, if you please and he gently pushed the 
hand extended to him with the paper in it away from him. 

” What do you mean, Hagget ?” asked Alford. 

” Why, just this,” replied the tailor. ” I don’t intend to 
take that from you now — no indeed, sir — after awhile when 
better days come, yes, but not now, not now.” 

” But I can’t accept it, my good friend ; how could I ? 
You are a man of large family, Hagget, and what right have 
I to take this from them ?” 

” Never mind my family, sir ; I’m able enough to supply 
all their wants. But just tell me ; wouldn’t you have used 
it over yonder in Rome, if you had got it and had had no 
other money ?” 

” Well, I suppose I should have done so ; but I was 
differently situated then.” 

” How so ? Are you any better off now ? But I don’t 
wish you to take it for yourself, sir, but for him.'' 

‘ ‘ Ah ! that is different ; but then I must ask his con- 
sent.” 

” No, no, by no means, sir, by no means ; I wouldn’t 
have him know any thing about it for the world.” 

” That will be rather a curious way of doing business, 
certainly,” said the young man, laughing. ” How am I to 
accept a loan for another man without consulting him? 
Can you tell me that ?” 

” I’ll just tell you what my idea is, sir,” replied Hagget. 
” I know very well you can do nothing unless you have a 
suitable place for your business, and even then you will do 
little without you advertise pretty extensively ; and what I 


224 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


thought you might do with the money — for, you must ex- 
cuse me, sir, but I swear I’ll have nothing to do with it until 
you are well able to pay it back — is just to rent a good room 
and furnish it nicely, and then put some flourishing adver- 
tisements in the newspapers. A flourishing advertisement, 
that pays the printer well, will bring you a short editorial 
notice, which is equivalent to the notice of the public.” 

” But,” said Alford, smiling at the other’s earnestness in 
settling him in business, seemingly entirely forgetful of the 
proposition to lend the money on Mr. Hapton’s account, 
” you forget one thing.” 

” What’s that, sir ?” 

” I was to take the money for our old friend upstairs, and 
now you are busy laying it all out for my benefit.” 

” No, no, by no means, sir,” protested the tailor. 
” Don’t I know that you are going to work for him. Don’t 
think that I have lost sight of him — by no means. How can 
you work for him to any good end if you have no place to 
work in ? And how can you get the work to do unless people 
know you are there, ready to paint them the very best pic- 
tures to be got in Baltimore — for I know you can do it, sir. 
No, no, I’ve been thinking of him all this time.” 

” I don’t see but that you are right, Hagget,” said Al- 
ford musingly. ” It will be for him — in fact, for us both. 
If I were alone — if my fate were not linked with his, noth- 
ing in the world would persuade me to take your money ; 
but—” 

” Say no more about that, Mr. James,” said the other, 
interrupting him. ” I don’t believe there ever was so noble 
a man as Mr. Hapton, and after all he has done for others, 
he deserves to be comfortable in his old age.” 

“You are certainly right there.” 

” I know I am, sir ; and if I could make him comforta- 
ble, nothing would please me more than to have him live 
with us just as he is doing now.” 

“I’m sure of it, Hagget.” 

“ But you see, no man feels exactly comfortable except 
among his equals — you understand, sir ?” 

” Yes, I understand what you would say.” 

” Then it’s a bargain, sir ? you’ll do as I say about it ?” 

** Yes, I will, and thank you for him and for myself.” 

‘‘No thanks are needful, Mr. James. You know how 
much I owe to him, for I have often told you ; but I 
wouldn’t dare mention it to him, and I’m thankful myself to 
find somebody who will help me to help him without his 
knowing any thing about it.” 


ALFORD SUCCEEDS AS A PORTRAIT-FAINTER. 225 


About this time Oliver returned to the city. His aunt 
had died, and he had remained at home until his sister had 
somewhat recovered from the shock produced by that mel- 
ancholy event. Mr. Hapton was left for the present in pos- 
session of the room at Hagget’s, and he took up his quarters 
with Alford, who had procured cheap lodgings in the neigh- 
borhood. 

Oliver had sprung rapidly up to manly stature during the 
past two or three years — he was taller by an inch or two 
than his friend — and there was a gentle, thoughtful look in 
his handsome face that excited the interest of any one who 
saw him. The old merchant seemed never to tire of gazing 
at him, and Alford soon noticed that there was a degree of 
sadness mingled with the pleasure which the contemplation 
of the youth seemed ever to afford him, and he wondered at 
it. 

Alford told Oliver all that had happened to him, omit- 
ting nothing — he had already heard of Mr. Hapton’s mis- 
fortunes — and when he had explained his plans for the 
future, the latter proposed that they should go together in 
quest of apartments suitable to the artist’s purpose. In a 
day or two they succeeded in securing a suite of three 
rooms — one large one — which faced to the north, and would 
answer for a studio, and two smaller ones, to be used for 
sleeping apartments. After the rooms were fitted up for oc- 
cupation, one of them was assigned to Mr. Hapton, who was 
surprised at the simple comforts by which he was sur- 
rounded. He guessed that Alford must have received assist- 
ance from some quarter — probably guessed aright from what 
quarter the assistance came — but said nothing. They took 
their economical meals at a cheap restaurant in the neigh- 
borhood, and with books procured from a circulating library 
i and a pleasant stroll with the two young men — his two sons 
i he was fond of calling them — when the work for the day was 
i done, he seemed perfectly happy and contented. 

Oliver, as soon as the studio was ready, had proposed to 
I Alford to take him as a pupil. He had worked faithfully 
1 with crayons ever since he first came to Baltimore, and 
showing some of his latest productions to his friend, was not 
j. discouraged by him in his aspirations to take up again the 
I palette, which he had laid aside by the advice of Mr. Hap- 
i ton. So it was arranged, and Oliver’s easel occupied one 
l corner of the studio. 

Alford, as Hagget had suggested, inserted some flourish- 
ing advertisements in the newspapers ; but he still contin- 
L ued to work for the photographers. It yielded him some- 


226 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


thing ; and though he felt that he was being cheated of his 
labor, he could not alford to give it up. By and by people 
began to drop in— those living in the immediate neighbor- 
hood at first, and then those inhabiting the more fashionable 
parts of the city. 

The box containing his sketches and studies, which he 
had shipped from Rome before quitting that city, had ar- 
rived, and its contents were distributed about the studio in 
such a way as to make it attractive ; and when he had 
added to these the portraits of several well-known citizens 
whom he persuaded to sit to him, his name began to be 
noised abroad, people who wished to transmit their faces to 
posterity began to call — some to take a first sitting at once 
— others to haggle over the terms, and go away grumbling 
that Daubpink or Splashdash would do it so much cheaper. 

Yet, notwithstanding the grumblers and the rivalry of 
Daubpink and Splashdash, the young artist soon had plenty 
to do. And then he stopped working for the photogra- 
phers, who, finding they were about to lose the services of a 
man who had been putting money in their pockets which 
they had done nothing to earn, offered him better terms, 
which, of course, he refused, leaving them to supply his 
place with some other poor devil who was forced by un- 
toward circumstances to give away his labor. 

But the experience of the portrait-painter is not always 
smooth and pleasant, and Alford soon found it out. There 
were those who didn’t like any shadows in their pictures — 
they, short-sighted mortals, never saw any when they 
looked at themselves in the looking-glass, and they didn’t 
want the painter to introduce them ; and there were those 
who wished to make their pictures the mediums of adver- 
tisement for jewelry stores — at least it seemed so from the 
number of gems of all descriptions with which they adorned 
their persons. The poor painter had to resort to many in- 
genious devices to save his pictures, now from an anaconda of 
a watch-cliain, with watch and chatelaine conspicuously dis- 
played with studied care, or again from a mighty breastpin, 
which might well have been called a breastplate. There were 
dark people who wanted to be made fair, sallow people who 
wanted a fine color, and ugly ones who wanted to be made 
handsome, and who did their best to look what they 
wanted, but only succeeded in looking particularly hideous. 
With all this everybody wanted striking likenesses ; and if 
they were not satisfied with the combined results of their 
own folly and the artist’s labors, refused to pay for their 
pictures. It was hard, very hard, to feel, though he dared 


ALFORD SUCCEEDS AS A PORTRAIT^PAINTER, 227 

not speak, like the honest Frenchman, who, when a sitter 
complained that he had not made a pretty picture of her, 
exclaimed, “ Eh ! parbleu^ madame ! You no pretty visage 
have, I no pretty picture make — que doncV En fi7i^ they 
were all willing enough to pay if they could get what they 
wanted, but they knew what they wanted — Raphael, Michel 
Angelo, and Titian to the contrary notwithstanding — and 
would pay for nothing else. 

Ah ! more bitter than death it is for genius to be bound 
to the car of mammon and forced to delve at the behest of 
vanity and ignorance. Yet, alas ! how many an aspiring 
youth, who has set out with the brightest hopes, and genius, 
and ardor to back them, has been obliged to descend to such 
grovelling for the sake of the little it takes to keep body and 
soul together, and has been forced to continue in the dreary 
slums of art until the light within him has flickered out with- 
out illumining one corner of his dark, unhappy life. 

Fortunately Alford was blessed with a great deal of pa- 
tience, and managed, in one way or another, to satisfy most 
of his sitters. Now and then, however, he fell in with a 
hard-headed customer more difficult to deal with ; though 
even with such he generally managed to effect some sort of a 
compromise between their want of artistic taste and his own 
feeling with regard to the artistic fitness of things. 

He had not as yet visited the paternal home. A small 
sum of money was of consequence now, and he felt the im- 
portance of establishing himself before expending any thing 
beyond what the absolute necessities of the moment re- 
quired. He had written to his father explaining his circum- 
stances, and promising to visit them all as soon as he could 
consistently do so ; and now he took the first opportunity 
to fulfil that promise. 

He found matters very much improved since his last visit. 
One of his brothers had obtained employment on the rail- 
way, and another, encouraged and advised by a young 
farmer to whom the eldest sister was engaged to be married, 
had undertaken to improve and cultivate the few acres of 
land belonging to the homestead, and was succeeding very 
‘well ; so, with what the two boys earned, added to their 
father’s little income, the family lived in greater comfort 
than it had ever known before. 

Amelia, the eldest sister, had written to her brother 
James, informing him of her contemplated marriage, and 
she now proudly introduced her John to him. And good 
reason the girl had to be proud of her intended husband. 
He was a fine young fellow, full of intelligence, enterprise. 


228 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


and energy, and a perfect enthusiast with regard to the new 
methods of farming, which he declared had already enabled 
him to make old fields which his predecessor had, as it were, 
turned out of doors, as worn out and good for naught, pay 
him a handsome profit. He lived about eight miles from 
Talbots ville, and the artist visited his farm — quite a model 
one in its way — before returning to Baltimore, which he did 
not do, however, without first calling on the good pastor, 
Mr. Elmore. He spent a couple of very pleasant hours at 
the parsonage, and when he rose to go, the good man could 
not resist giving vent to his feelings, though he was one 
who did not believe in flattering youth. 

“ What a change, what a change travel does make, to be 
sure !” he said, looking with evident pleasure at the hand- 
some and elegant young man. Alford blushed, but said 
nothing while he pressed his host’s hand. “ Who would 
think you were the same wild Jem Alford who used to chalk 
caricatures on my church door? Ah ! James,” he contin- 
ued, shaking his finger warningly, though he laughed at the 
same time, ” good may sometimes come out of evil ; but it 
is not sound Protestant doctrine. ’ ’ 

” I suppose not, sir,” replied his visitor ; ” but I can as- 
sure you that I have long since repented of my sins.” 

” I have no doubt of it, my boy,” said the other ; ” and 
as things have turned out, we can’t complain : that excel- 
lent gentleman who did so much for you has you now to 
support and comfort him in his day of adversity.” 

” And we have both to thank you, sir ; for, if it had not 
been for you — ” 

” No, no, James,” interrupted Mr. Elmore, ” your thanks 
are not due to me, but to Him who guides all our affairs, great 
and small. Give thanks to Him — have faith in Him, and 
all will be well with you. ’ ’ 

So the young artist returned to the city with a light heart. 
He labored earnestly and successfully, and soon found him- 
self in a position of comparative independence. Then he 
repaid Hagget the money which had proved of such infinite 
service. 

” Aha !” said the tailor, looking at him with a smiling 
countenance, ” didn’t I tell you so ? I’ll tell you what, 
Mr. James, I’m but an insignificant body, but I know some- 
thing about business, People have to be humbugged a lit- 
tle or they are not satisfied. I don’t mean to say that you 
have humbugged them----no, no, sir, by no means — but 
there’s always a certain aniount of humbug about those 
flourishing advertisements, you know,” 


ALFORD SUCCEEDS AS A PORTRAIT-PAINTER, 229 


“That’s a fact, Hagget,” said Alford, laughing; “but 
don’t be too sure that I haven’t practised the pleasant art 
myself in some measure, and not left it all to my complai- 
sant friend the editor. I suppose we all learn it more cr 
less when we come in contact with the world, and have to 
look out that number one keeps on his pegs and isn’t 
brought to grief.” 

“ You are right, sir, you are right,” responded the tailor ; 
“ one has to learn it in self-defence, and though some may 
laugh at it, and others get mad about it, it’s certainly hard 
to get along without it in these days.” 

“ There is no doubt about that,” said the other ; “ and 
there’s an eccentric friend of mine who thinks it ought to be 
made a branch of common-school education.” 

“ And who may that be, sir ?” 

“ Mr. Towling : don’t you remember him ? He used to 
come here with me sometimes in the old days.” 

“ Indeed I do^ sir, and I might have known it was he if I 
had thought for one minute. Many’s the laugh Elspeth and 
I have had over his jokes. But where is he now, sir ? I 
heard that somebody left him a pile of money — all on 
account of a picture he painted — and there was a lawsuit, 
and the picture was shown in court, and made quite a stir ; 
they say it was something horrible.” 

“ Yes, he did inherit some money — a fortune, I believe — 
and there was a lawsuit. He wrote to me about the picture 
being exhibited in court and the sensation it created ; but I 
thought that was one of his jokes ; and I suppose it was, in 
a measure, for he told of some people fainting at sight 
of it, and others running away terrified out of their wits.” 

“ Well, it did make a stir, as I told you, sir, and the 
whole town was talking about it, and it made plenty of fun 
for the newspapers ; but since then I’ve heard nothing of 
the young gentleman.” 

“ Oh ! I beg your pardon for not answering your ques- 
tion,” said Alford, now recollecting that the tailor had in- 
quired as to the whereabouts of his friend. “ Towling is 
living in New York ; but I expect him here in a few days. 
He wrote to tell me that he was coming to Baltimore to be 
married ; but as he did not say to whom, I expect that is 
one of his jokes. He is the last man in the world that I 
should suspect of contemplating matrimony.” 

“ Ah ! you don’t know as much about men as I do, Mr. 
James,” said Hagget, laughing. “Those kind of gentle- 
men go along through life laughing and joking — especially 
on that subject — but when they once take a notion to marry, 


230 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


they’ll do it, if they have to beg a wife from door to 
door.” 

In a few days Towling made his appearance in Alford’s 
studio, and the two friends greeted each other with affec- 
tionate delight. He was as jolly and full of life as ever, 
and the inward man was evidently the same ; but in the 
outward man there was such a decided change, that Alford 
began to suspect he had been rather hasty in his conclusions 
with regard to his friend’s matrimonial intentions. He was 
dressed in the very height of fashion, the effect of which 
was a little marred, it is true, by the bizarre taste of the Bo- 
hemian, which peeped out in the matter of necktie, waist- 
coat, and jewelry. 

” And so you are going to be married, old fellow,” said 
Alford. 

” Yes, and to whom, do you think ?” said Towling. 

“To whom ! How in the world should I know ?” 

“ Why, you knew the child well enough.” 

“ Child ! are you going to marry a child ?” 

“ Child ! Great heavens, man ! can’t a child grow to be 
a woman in course of time ?” 

“ I suppose it can — that is, if it is a she child,” said Al- 
ford, laughing ; “ but you spoke as if you were going to 
marry a child.” 

“ Well, what I meant was, that you knew her when she 
was a child — the little darling. But come, what's the use 
of all this nonsense ? I’m going to marry little Agnes Ash- 
ley, our old drawing-master’s daughter.” 

“Well, I must confess,” said Alford, “if you had told 
me at first that you were going to marry Agnes Ashley I 
should have thought you were joking, for I should have 
thought of her on the instant as the little girl we used to pet 
and play with ; but of course six or seven years make a 
difference. If she is as sweet and pretty a woman as she 
was a child, you are a fortunate man, and I congratulate 
you.” 

“ Sweet and pretty ! I can tell you, she’s ten times 
sweeter and ten times prettier, and I’m a thrice fortunate 
man, which is three times better than Miss Myrtle’s in- 
tended could go.” 

Alford introduced his friend to Oliver Maxwell, who 
came in just then, and after going over the various pictures 
and sketches, criticising or praising in his usual humorous 
fashion, the bridegroom elect insisted that they should all 
go out and have a jolly time of it for the balance of the day. 

As long as Towling remained in Baltimore there was very 


ALFORD SUCCEEDS AS A PORTRAIDPAINTER. 231 

little work done by either Alford or Oliver : the jolly time 
seemed to be continued from day to day, like a serial story 
in a daily journal ; but in the course of a week he was mar- 
ried — Alford playing the important part of first groomsman 
— and departed with his sweet young bride to New York, 
when master and pupil returned from the station, whither 
they had gone to see the happy couple off, laid aside the 
bridal favors and Sunday clothes together, and dropped 
back to the usual routine of daily labor. 

Alford was very desirous of painting the picture which he 
had been about to commence when called so suddenly away 
from Rome ; but he found it impossible to afford the sub- 
ject the time needful for its proper development, without 
neglecting that branch of art on which he depended for the 
support of himself and that other one whose comfort and 
happiness were more to him just now than almost any thing 
else. 

One day when he came in, after some necessary absence 
from his studio, Mr. Hapton handed him a letter that had 
been delivered by the postman while he was away. It was 
from Rome, and was addressed in Elenor Weston’s handwrit- 
ing, which the old gentleman had probably noticed — of 
course he was well acquainted with the young lady’s chirog- 
raphy — for he looked at the young man with a peculiar 
smile on his lips when he gave it to him. 

Alford had not confided his precious secret to his dearest 
friend as yet ; but that look told him that it was partly if 
not wholly guessed, and with a conscious blush he took the 
letter, determining as soon as he had read it to give Mr. 
Hapton, who was her guardian, as well as his benefactor 
and friend, an account of his connection with Elenor. 

“ My dear James,” said the old gentleman, when Alford 
had finished his confession, I suspected something like this 
some time ago, from your manner whenever that noble girl 
was the subject of conversation ; and I was confirmed in my 
suspicions when I saw that letter — for 1 am well acquainted 
with her handwriting, as you must know, and I cannot tell 
you how happy I am to have those suspicions confirmed by 
yourself. Elenor is not rich, in the usual acceptation of the 
term, though she is mistress of a very comfortable income ; 
but she is rich in those good things which St. Paul very 
rightly considers the only riches worthy of our desires ; and 
I am truly rejoiced that you have won the love of one whose 
heart is so pure and who is so full of those virtues which 
make a woman lovely and admirable.” Alford said nothing 
■ — what could he say ? — but listened with pleased attention to 


232 AFTER MANY YEARS. 

praises which were worth so much coming from the lips of 
such a man, and the other continued : “ I have been her 
guardian, and had the management of her little property 
since her father’s death ; but I have been expecting ever 
since my own fall to receive a notice from her mother — who 
has always been a worldly-minded woman — to relinquish my 
guardianship. I shall not do so, however, unless Elenor 
herself desires it.” 

“That she will never do, sir,” said the young man 
earnestly. 

“ I am sure she will not,” said Mr. Hapton. “ I have 
received several letters from her since your return, and they 
are full of sympathy and love for her dear old friend and 
father, as she has always called me. She has even asked 
me to use her property to re-establish myself in business ; 
but that, of course, is out of the question : not but that I 
might make it profitable, both to her and myself, if 1 were 
younger ; but 1 am too old and broken now, and my ener- 
gies are too far spent for me to make another start in life. 
But I do not intend, my dear son, to be a burden upon 
you. Nay, nay, let me have my own way,” he said hastily, 
when he saw that Alford was about to interrupt him with a 
protest. “ I have still the power of self-support within me, 
and I have lately been seeking employment, and have found 
such as will suit me, and which will yield sufficient remuner- 
ation to live on decently.” 

‘ ‘ But, sir, ’ ’ remonstrated Alford, ‘ ‘ is this necessary ? 
Why should you — ” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Hapton, “it is necessary. I 
have been independent since I came to man's estate, and 
independence is necessary to my comfort now. We will live 
the same as we are living now, but I must bear my share of 
the expenses, and then you, my son, may be able to lay by 
something against that day of joy — you understand me — to 
which we will both look forward in happy anticipation.” 

Alford could make no objections to this ; indeed, he knew 
it would be useless if he did. He fully appreciated the old 
gentleman’s feelings, and even had he not done so, the evi- 
dent pleasure of the latter in having some employment 
would have satisfied him of the wisdom of the arrangement. 


EXIT DAVID MAXWELL, 


233 


CHAPTER XXII. 

EXIT DAVID MAXWELL. 

There was a solemn hush about the old farm-house near 
Atwell, though there were more people there than usual. 
There were people in the sitting-room, people on the por- 
tico, and people in the kitchen — people who seemed to have 
nothing particular to do there, unless it was to talk, which 
they did in low murmuring tones. Even Elsie Brown modu- 
lated her strident voice as she moved about setting things 
to rights, which occupation seemed to keep her moving all 
the time. 

Sylvia sat in her chamber alone. Her eyes were red, 
though now they were dry, as if the fountain of bitterness 
had exhausted itself, and she sat quite still, listening to the 
muflled sounds which seemed to pervade the whole house. 
By and by Elsie opened the chamber door softly and looked 
in. Her eyes grew moist with loving sympathy as she 
looked on the despondent figure sitting there, drooping like 
a fair flower that has been wounded and broken by some 
ruthless hand. ‘‘ Can’t I do nothin’ fur yer, Miss Sylvy ?” 
she asked. 

Nothing, Elsie,” in the subdued accents of sorrow. 

Miss Sylvy !” said Elsie, advancing into the room, 
and falling naturally into an attitude of supplication, ” don’t 
set there like that : it a nigh breaks my heart to see yer. 
Come, now, there’s a darlin’,” she added pleadingly, ” let 
me fetch yer a cup a tea, an’ some bread and butter : why, 
ye hain’t eat nothin’ sence yesterday morn.” 

” Thank you, Elsie,” replied Sylvia ; ” but I want noth- 
ing : I can’t eat.” 

“Well, well!” said the kind-hearted woman, “I on’y 
wish I knowed what to do fur yer : it’s jest awful to see yer 
there settin’ that a way, an’ not a carin’ fur nothin’.” 

“ Never mind me, Elsie.” 

“ But I must mind yer, miss,” said Elsie : “ ef I don’t 
mind yer who’s a gwine to do it, I’d like to know ? Oh my ! ’ ’ 
she added, with a sigh, as she moved towards the door, “ I 
do wish Mister Oliver would come : he’d be able fur to do 
somethin’ with yer, I know.” 

Shortly after Elsie’s departure the voice of prayer was 
heard in the next room. The young girl listened a moment 


234 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


and then quickly rose from her seat and threw herself on 
her knees, burying her face in her hands. 

David Maxwell lay on his death-bed. The minister who 
officiated in the village church was with -him, and it was his 
voice that Sylvia had heard praying. When he had finished 
his supplications, in which the dying man joined with a 
scarcely audible voice, he arose from his knees, and with a 
few last words of encouragement and hope, took his depart- 
ure, promising to come again as soon as the fulfilment of 
other duties which now called him away would permit. .He 
had not been long gone when Mr. Dinning entered the 
room. Unlike the rest of the house, which was closed and 
darkened, the chamber of death was bright with sunlight. 
Such had been the wish of the old man. He had lived in 
the sunshine all his days, he said, and he did not see why 
he should be deprived of it now that he was so near the end. 
He did not look much changed as he sat propped with pil- 
lows in the bed, the sunlight reflected on his bronzed 
cheeks. The fact is, people tanned and browned by the sun 
do not show the ravages of disease as plainly as the fair and 
delicate, and at a first glance no one would have supposed 
that David Maxwell was sick unto death. 

“ Elsie told me that you were anxious to see me, Davy,'" 
said the school-master, looking at his ancient friend as if he 
doubted the correctness of the information he had received 
with regard to his condition. 

“ Yes,” said the sick man, slowly and with apparent diffi- 
culty, ” there is much that I wish to say to you, and I began 
to fear after all that you would not get here in time. Thank 
God you did, though.” 

” I came as soon as I received your message, neighbor,” 
said the other, ” though I should have come all the same, 
even had I not received it. You know I had to make a lit- 
tle journey. It is seldom I am called upon to do such a 
thing ; but in this case the call was imperative, and I felt 
obliged to go, little as I like moving. I left you sick ; but 
little did I think — ” Here he hesitated a moment, and the 
farmer said ” That it was but the beginning of the end.” 

” Just so,” acquiesced the school-master, ” the beginning 
of the end. But is it really so?” he asked, as if he had 
some doubts about it in his own mind, and he laid his hand 
on that of the sick man ; ” are you sure the doctor under- 
stands your case ?” 

” It needed no doctor to tell me what I very well knew 
without his help,” replied David. ” I had an idea from the 
very first that it would end so ; but God’s will be done.” 


EXIT DAVID MAXWELL. 


23s 


** Amen/’ responded the school-master. 

“ If you had come earlier,” continued the farmer, ” I in- 
tended to ask your advice upon certain matters ; but as it 
is, I have concluded to act without any one’s advice, and 
only ask you to help me to carry out my wishes.” 

” Yes, and those wishes ?” 

” Have reference to Oliver and Sylvia. I made my will 
a good while ago — right after my dear wife, Betsey, died — 
and of course all my property, with the exception of a little 
legacy to Elsie Brown, is to be theirs, to do as they please 
with. You, my good friend, are not accustomed to busi- 
ness, I know ; but I have appointed you administrator on 
my little estate, because I think honesty in such matters is 
better than anything else.” The old man spoke slowly and 
in a deliberate way, which showed that it was an effort to 
speak at all. ‘‘ The farm, I know, will be of no use to Oli- 
ver ; he has no thought of farming, and no taste for it. He 
may wish to sell out — though I think he would do better to 
rent or lease the place — but whatever his wishes are, I au- 
thorize you to carry them out. He is a fine lad, and I have 
no fear for him, whatever course he chooses to pursue ; and 
having no fear for him, I have none for Sylvia.” 

” And truly you need have none,” said Mr. Dinning. 
” Oliver is indeed a noble boy, and his sister’s well-being 
and happiness will always be the first consideration with 
him, you may rely upon that. But with regard to the true 
story of their connection with yourself, neighbor : have you 
never given them a hint which could lead them to suspect 
that there was some mystery about it ?’ ’ 

” Never ; and I’m sure that no one else has. It was just 
that which made me so anxious to see you. I have thought 
a good deal over the matter since I have been lying here, 
and have come to the conclusion that it will be best to let it 
stand just as it is. I have already told Elsie Brown what 
my desires are — for I feared I should not see you at all — 
and she is a faithful creature, and I know that I can trust 
her. ’ ’ 

” But, Davy, my good friend,” said the school-master, ” I 
don’t think you have the right to keep this secret from those 
who are so much interested in it. How do you know what 
chance may turn up ? what circumstance — ” 

” Stay, stay,” interrupted the farmer, lifting his hand fee- 
bly in remonstrance ; ” you must hear me out before you 
say any thing, and perhaps I may satisfy you that I am 
right. There is but one certain way of finding out any thing 
about the parents or relatives of these children, and that is 


236 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


through the woman who brought them here — if she be yet 
alive — and Elsie says she would know her again, even now, 
no matter where she might meet her. She has promised me 
that she will stick to Oliver and Sylvia — and I don’t sup- 
pose they will refuse her if she wishes to go with them — and 
keep a lookout everywhere for that woman. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Yes, that’s very well,” said the other, “ but you have 
another clew besides the woman : you have the pictures of 
their parents.” 

” That’s true enough, and might be of some use if we 
only knew in what direction to look for those j^arents.” 

” And why not give Oliver the pictures and tell him the 
whole story ? The boy would naturally take more interest 
in discovering the truth than any one else, and would exert 
himself to do so.” 

” Aye,” said the farmer, shaking his head, ” and waste 
the best part of his life in seeking to find that which might 
be of no advantage to him when found after all. 1 thought 
of that myself ; but when I had weighed it well in my 
mind, I saw it wouldn’t do. Don’t you see, my friend, 
that it would unsettle him at once ? By giving him such an 
object to pursue — and he would pursue it to the neglect of 
every thing else, you may be certain — his whole life might be 
made purposeless, and end in nothing.” 

There was wisdom in this view of the case in question, 
and the school-master saw it at once. ” Yes, yes,” he said, 
” you are clearly right there, Davy, and I was wrong. I 
acknowledge it frankly. Oliver is enthusiastic about the 
profession he has chosen ; but such a tale would be likely 
to unsettle the steadiest of us, and there is no telling what 
might come of it if he should find out the truth.” 

” The pictures of which you spoke,” continued the 
farmer, ” Betsey and I put out of sight as soon as we were 
satisfied that no one would come to claim the children. 
You see those pictures were of a gentleman and lady in a 
higher station in life than ourselves, and we feared, very 
naturally, I think, that they might excite a troublesome 
curiosity in the minds of the little ones as they grew older.” 
While he was speaking the old man had been searching un- 
der his pillows for something, and he now produced a little 
packet, tied up with twine, and sealed. ” This,” he said, 
handing it to the school-master, contains the pictures, and a 
paper on which I have written out an account of the way in 
which these children came to us, with a description of the 
woman who brought them. I leave these with you to make 
use of whenever you may see fit ; but I advise you to keep 


EXIT DAVID MAXWELL. 


237 


the secret to yourself until the boy is well settled in life, and 
to impress upon Elsie Brown the necessity of doing the 
same on her part, though I think I have made her under- 
stand that already/’ 

This conversation occupied a much longer time than a 
like conversation would under ordinary circumstances, for 
the chief speaker delivered himself very slowly, and even 
then was frequently obliged to stop to recover his breath. 
When he came to a final stop, and his auditor had promised 
to carry out his wishes to the best of his ability, he lay back 
as if completely exhausted, and said he thought he would 
try and sleep a little. 

That evening Oliver reached home, much to the comfort 
of his sister, and the next day David Maxwell departed this 
life, full of hope and faith in that future to which we all are 
journeying, great and small, rich and poor ; that future 
where we all begin life anew, upon another level and with 
other aims ; that future where Caesar is no greater than his 
helot, Croesus no richer than the slave who squeezed his 
grapes to make his wine ; that future where righteousness 
is the capital on which our fortunes and our fates are built. 

About three weeks after the old man was buried, Oliver 
and Sylvia prepared to leave the farm. Mr. Dinning had 
told them of David Maxwell’s advice, and the place had 
been leased for a term of ten years, and the farming imple- 
ments, stock, and household furniture sold to the lessee. 

What with the rent of the farm, and the dividends from 
certain stocks in which the old farmer had invested his sav- 
ings from time to time, the brother and sister found them- 
selves the possessors of an income which would support 
them in comfort as long as they lived together, and the idea 
of any thing happening which might cause a separation had 
never as yet occurred to them. The only thing that 
troubled them was the disposal of Elsie Brown. They 
never thought for a moment that she would desire to go 
with them, and after consulting together, they decided to 
ask their tenant to keep her on at the farm : she had lived 
there so long that they never doubted but that she would 
prefer that to any change. The man had consented, on their 
recommendation, to keep her on fair wages, and then Sylvia 
undertook to broach the subject to her. 

“ Elsie,” said the girl, ” Oliver and I are going away in a 
few days, but we didn’t like to go until every thing was com- 
fortably settled for you, and so we have made an arrange- 
ment with Mr. Williams which we think will suit you better 
than anything else.” ' 


238 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** Mister Williams, Miss Sylvy !” said Elsie, stopping 
what she was doing, and looking at her young mistress with 
wide-open eyes, “ what on yearth has I got to do with yer 
Mister Williams 

Sylvia was somewhat disconcerted by this reception ; but 
she went on with what she had to say : “ You have been 
here so long, Elsie,’' she said, “ that we thought you would 
not like to leave the old place, and so — ” 

“ O Miss Sylvy,” cried Elsie, interrupting her, and 
bursting into tears, ” don’t say no more : I knows jest what 
you’s a gwine to say ; you and Mister Ollie has gone an’ 
hired me out jest like any black nigger. Oh, oh, oh ! I never 
should a thunk it of yer, Miss Sylvy — no, I never should, 
never;” and Elsie Brown threw herself on the floor of the 
kitchen — in which they were at the time — and covering her 
face with her apron, blubbered without let or hindrance. 

Sylvia, who had expected Elsie to be delighted with the 
prospect of remaining where all the associations of her past 
life were centred, was so taken aback that for a few min- 
utes she did not know what to say. By the time the grief 
of the latter had become a little less obstreperous, hov/ever, 
she had so far recovered her composure as to be able to ex- 
plain the position, which she did. 

” However,” she concluded, ” if you wish to go with us, 
Elsie, we will be glad to have you. We are going among 
strangers, and you may not always find yourself as comfort- 
able as here at the old place, where you are accustomed to 
every thing, and every thing is accustomed to you.” 

“Ah, Miss Sylvy!” replied the woman, getting up and 
drying her eyes on her apron, “ what is a place when the 
people is gone ?” 

“ That is true,” responded Sylvia sorrowfully, and speak- 
ing as though the other had made a distinct proposition, 
whereas she had really asked a question ; but that question 
implied every thing. “ Sol will tell Ollie that you prefer to 
go with us,” she added, after a few minutes’ silent musing. 

“ Yes, Miss Sylvy. I knows I’m nothin’ but a plain ole 
country critur, and I ain’t got no lamin’; but as Ruth said 
to Borax, ‘ Where you’s a gwine I’m a gwine too,’ an’ that’s 
the end on it.” _ . 

Elsie’s knowledge of the letter of Scripture was exceed- 
ingly limited ; but the spirit of the word was in her heart, 
and she started on her travels in her old age — for youth had 
long since departed from her — with a single object in view, 
and that was the advancement of the interests of those two, 
for whom she would have willingly laid down her life at any 


EXIT DAVID MAXWELL, 


239 


moment. To do ail that she, so humble an instrument, 
could do to have them righted, was now her sole object in 
life. Of course they had been foully wronged by some vil- 
lain or villains, who had gained by their loss. Simple as she 
was, she understood that ; and she was determined to find 
that woman, who could tell her all about them, and whom 
she never doubted that she should meet “ somewheres on 
the face of the yearth,” as she said to herself. 

Mr. Dinning sought an interview with her before she went 
away. 

“ So you are going with them, Elsie ?” he said. 

“ Certing, an' sure, sir," said Elsie; ‘‘ wheres else 
should I go ? and who knows but what they’ll need me 
some day, poor a critur as I am ?’’ 

“ You are quite right, Elsie. They are young to start 
out in the world, and an old friend like you will be a com- 
fort as well as a service to them." 

" I hopes to serve ’em at any rates." 

"How?" 

" By findin’ of them that they righteously b’longs to," 
said Elsie, looking boldly in the school-master’s face, as if 
she half suspected he would laugh at her. But he did not 
laugh ; he simply said, " I trust you will succeed ;’’ and then 
after a few minutes he added, " I hope you have said noth- 
ing to them about this, Elsie." 

"Me!" said Elsie, with a look of astonishment; "no, 
sh'. I ain’t a fool yet, Mister Dinnin’. No, I ain’t said 
nothin’ to ’em ; an’ what’s more, 1 ain’tagwine to till 1 can 
lay my ban’s on ther parients, or leastways on some a ther 
kin." 

"I’m glad to find you are such a sensible woman," said 
the school-master, and Elsie seemed much flattered by the 
acknowledgment; "for it could do no possible good, and 
might do a great deal of harm, for them to know all that we 
know. Can you write, Elsie ?’’ 

" Me ! Lord bless you, sir, no !" 

" I don’t mean a fine letter — any kind of a scrawl would 
do — print letters — any thing in fact." 

" I couldn’t do it, no ways, sir," said Elsie dolefully, for 
she concluded at once that every thing would depend upon 
her being able to write, and her heart sank within her ; 
" no, I couldn’t do it ef it was to save my neck from the 
hangman. I ain’t got no lamin’, an’ till this blessed minit 
I never cared nothin’ ’bout it. I allers made my mark 
when I had to meddle with pens and ink at all ; but now, 
good Lord ! I’d go to school a month or two jest to larn, ef 


240 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


1 had the time. But 'tain’t no use, sir, ef it depen’s upon 
wiltin’, so I’ll jest have to give it up.” 

The school-master had been in a reverie while she was re- 
gretting her want of ” lamin’,” and had paid no heed to her. 
” Never mind,” he said, coming out of his fit of musing, 
” if it is needful, you can get somebody to write for you.” 

“May, I though?” said Elsie, evidently very much re- 
lieved. 

“Yes,” replied the other ; “ but neither one of them^ you 
understand.” 

“ Oh yes, sir, I onderstan’: trust me.” 

“ Well, what I want you to do is this : if you should find 
out any thing — that is, if you should meet with the woman 
anywhere, or learn any thing of importance — any thing with 
regard to them., I mean, you can write — that is, get some- 
body to write for you — to me, and tell me every thing — rec- 
ollect, every thing that you may have found out. ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir, I’m sure I can do that.” 

“ Very well ; and now I have something else to say. 
You remember the pictures — ” 

“ Them pictures — of the beautiful gentleman and lady — 
aye, I should think I did ; an’ I’ve wondered an’ won- 
dered what could a become of ’em.” 

“ I have them,” said Mr. Dinning, “ and, if need be, 
you can tell anybody where they may find them. How- 
ever,” he added, after a few minutes’ thought, “that will 
hardly be necessary, if you write to me, as I told you to do. 
Now, Elsie, do you understand all I have said to you ?” 

“ Oh yes, sir, I onderstand well enough, an’ you can jest 
trust to me. I ain’t got no lamin’, but I ain’t a fool 
nuther.” 


END OF VOL. I. 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


VOLUME II. 


CHAPTER I. 

AT SEA. 

The Shooting Star was a stanch packet and a good 
sailer. She was bound for Liverpool, to which port she had 
been known to make several passages almost as quickly as 
the steamers. She had been out now nearly a week, with 
favorable winds and unexceptionable weather, and was 
pursuing her way — gallant ship that she was — with all sail 
set. A sailing vessel in mid-ocean with every stitch of can- 
vas unfurled to the breeze is a beautiful sight to behold. 
The rolling waters seem to lift her graceful prow with de- 
light, proud of the burden they bear ; they play and dance 
around her, and kiss her glistening sides with ecstasy, and 
she appears to leap joyfully to meet them, courting their 
caresses. The ship seems made for the ocean, the ocean for 
the ship. 

On the after-deck of the Shooting Star sat the only two 
cabin passengers, enjoying the beauties of a gorgeous sunset. 
They were Oliver Maxwell and his sister. After David Max- 
well’s death, they had lived a year in Baltimore, and then 
decided to go to Europe. Elsie Brown accompanied them, 
of course ; but neither sunset nor ocean possessed any 
charms for her, and she seldom ventured outside the cabin, 
where she found some employment in assisting the ship’s 
steward in his duties. 

‘ ‘ How beautiful it is, ’ ’ said Oliver, who had been gazing 
in silence on the glories of the sunlight reflected on clouds 
and water, “ how superbly beautiful !” 

‘ ‘ Do you think you could paint it, Ollie ?’ ' asked Sylvia. 

“ I would hardly dare to try,” was the response. ” It 
seems to me that a scene like this can only be painted with 


241 


242 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


the true spirit from memory, as the best descriptive poems 
are written ; the expanse is too broad and the effects too 
subtle to be dashed off directly from nature. There are at 
once sameness and variety in the picture : sameness, in that 
there are but two objects in view, water and sky ; variety, 
in the innumerable delicate effects produced by light on 
each, and which really make the beauty of the scene, shed- 
ding a halo of glory over what would otherwise be dismal 
and awful.'* 

“You are certainly right, Ollie,** said his sister. “I 
fancy it would puzzle the greatest painter that ever lived to 
paint such a scene from nature ; the effects are always shift- 
ing and changing.** 

“ I think,** said Oliver, “ the only way to do it would be 
to study it well, and try to retain a vivid recollection of it, 
and then to paint it at some future time — by inspiration, as 
it were.** 

“Yes,** said the girl musingly. “ Of course I know noth- 
ing about it, having seen so little — nothing, in fact — but I 
suppose the best landscape-painters would have been what 
are called bucolic poets under different circumstances.’* 

“ There’s a vessel !*’ exclaimed Oliver. “ She must be a 
steamer ; see the smoke coming from her. ” 

They sat silently looking at the vessel, which was on the 
horizon, a little off the lee bow of the Shooting Star, until 
twilight spread over the scene, and then seemed to gather 
up into a focus around them ere fleeing before the shades of 
night, which had already taken possession of sky and water. 

“ What a great light she makes ' ’* said Sylvia ; and at the 
same time came a cry from the man on the lookout. 

“ What is it ?’’ shouted the captain, who had just come 
on deck. 

“ A ship on fire, sir, I think,** shouted the sailor in re- 
turn. 

“ Where away ?*’ 

“ Off the lee bow, sir.** 

A glance was sufficient to satisfy the captain. “ Bear 
away for her,** he said to the man at the wheel. 

“ Aye, aye, sir,** said the man ; and the ship’s course 
was changed a few points. 

She was sailing before the wind now, and rapidly ap- 
proaching the object toward which she was steered. In a 
little while the moon rose directly in front of her ; and the 
outline of the distant ship was distinctly seen against the 
yellow disk, while the light of the fire, which had been the 
only thing visible in that vast expanse of darkness a few mo- 


AT SEA, 


243 


ments before, seemed to be suddenly extinguished. Cap- 
tain Thompson, however, was not deceived ; he knew that 
the brilliant orb which had revealed the ship herself had 
overpowered the light of the fire that consumed her. 

The moon rose above the horizon, and commenced to 
climb the sky among the twinkling stars that seemed to 
await her with trembling expectation. Her color changed 
gradually from yellow to silvery white, and neither ship nor 
Hre could be seen in the silvery sheen that spread itself over 
the sea directly beneath her. But the steersman knew the 
object of interest lay at the end of the broad, bright path- 
way that the moon had paved for them, and the Shooting 
Star bounded along on her mission of mercy. At last the 
light of the fire became visible again, and soon the ship 
herself could be seen ; and then, as they drew nearer, the 
fire and the moon seemed to contend for mastery on the 
mighty deep. It was like a war of golden and silver ser- 
pents — here writhing and twisting in inextricable masses, 
there chasing each other along the waves, leaping from crest 
to crest, and disappearing together in the outer darkness. 

Nearer and nearer they drew to the doomed ship — the 
whole of her forward part was in flames — and they were 
soon close enough to hear the shrieks of despair arising from 
the poor creatures collected on her after-deck. One boat 
could be seen rowing aimlessly about. She was already 
overcrowded with human beings, and unable to render assist- 
ance to those left behind, and yet seemed loath to go away 
and leave them to their fearful fate. Oh ! it was a pitiful 
sight to see those poor wretches clinging to each other in 
this their hour of despairing need, as if there were comfort 
and hope in the mere fact of contiguity. Aye ! mayhap 
there were proud ones there — those who had sat in the seat 
of the scornful all their lives — now clinging to tjie poor and 
lowly, from whom, a few hours before, they would have 
gathered their skirts away, fearing contamination. Ah ! 
danger and death are terrible levellers : storm and fire re- 
spect not the pampered darlings of wealth any more than 
the ragged offspring of beggary. “Ye all belong to me,“ 
says the king of terrors, “ and sooner or later I will claim 
you all.” 

The excitement on board the Shooting Star was intense ; 
even old sailors, inured to scenes of suffering and danger, 
were half wild. The captain alone was cool and collected, 
and had he not been so, it is probable those on board the 
rapidly consuming vessel would not have escaped the fate 
that threatened them. 


244 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


The ship lay off and on at a safe distance, and her boats 
were lowered and manned ‘as quickly as possible. Oliver 
and Sylvia stood watching their progress with throbbing 
hearts. He was too agitated to speak, and his sister trem- 
bled nervously as she leaned on his arm. The speed of the 
boats seemed slow — oh ! so slow — to them, and the shout of 
joy and thanksgiving which went up from the poor 
wretches, who but a short time before had believed their 
doom was inevitable, and given themselves up for lost, as 
their rescuers approached, found a glad echo in their own 
souls. So intent were they on the proceedings of the boat’s 
crews and the people on the burning ship that they did not, 
at first, hear a voice that was hailing them from the water 
below. 

“ Hullo, there ! lend a hand and cast us a line,” shouted 
the voice at last, with an expletive calculated to attract at- 
tention. 

Oliver started, and looking about him soon found a rope, 
the end of which he threw to the speaker, who caught it 
with the skill of a sailor, and made it fast to the bow of the 
boat in which he stood, telling the young man to haul in 
and belay his end. 

” Now,” said the sailor, ” go for’ard and see if you can’t 
get somebody to come here an* help get these people 
aboard. ’ * 

Most of the crew were in the boats that had gone to the 
rescue ; but the little company of exhausted men, women, 
and children were soon on deck, and the boat which had 
brought them pushed off to the assistance of the others. 

One would have supposed that among these people who 
had just been rescued from death there would have been 
some signs of rejoicing ; but there were none : they seemed 
to be perfectly apathetic, and the only thought that seemed 
to possess the majority of them was to get something to eat 
and then lie down to sleep. Few cast their eyes towards the 
blazing pyre they had just escaped, and they only casually ; 
they seemed content that they themselves were safe, without 
bestowing a thought on their late companions. The few 
hours of terrible excitement and fear through which they 
had passed seemed to have prostrated them morally and 
mentally, so deadened their sensibilities that they were in- 
capable of feeling any emotion whatever. They all, with 
two or three exceptions, belonged to the lower ranks of 
society. One of the exceptions was a young girl, who had 
been lifted from the boat in a state of insensibility. Those 
who had brought her on board the ship had been in too 


AT SEA, 


245 


great haste to do any more, and had laid her down on the 
deck, where an old lady knelt beside her, wailing and mourn- 
ing over her. 

“O my darling! my darling!'* she sobbed, while the 
tears streamed over her withered cheeks, “ open your eyes 
and look at me but once, that 1 may know you are not dead. 
We are safe now, dear, safe. Holy mother ! the fright surely 
has killed her and with trembling hand she hastily fum- 
bled in the girl's dress to feel if her heart still beat. The 
pulsation was so slight as to be imperceptible to the touch, or 
else the lady’s nervous anxiety was so great as to frustrate her 
object, for she quickly drew away and wrung her hands with 
agony. O my God !" she cried, looking around with 
wild despair in her eyes, “ will nobody help me ?’' 

Sylvia, who had understood the situation as soon as the 
insensible girl was laid on the deck — her head placed on a 
pea-jacket that a sailor had stripped from his back to be ap- 
propriated in that way — had hurried down into the cabin, 
and she now appeared, just as the old lady uttered her de- 
spairing cry, with a pillow in one hand and a bottle of Co- 
logne water in the other. 

* ‘ Dear madam, ' ' she said soothingly, as she knelt down 
and gently placed the pillow she had brought, “ let me help 
you.” 

” But she is dead ! — dead !” said the other, forgetting 
her cry for help a moment before. ” She is dead ! and 
what good will any help be now ?’' 

” No, she is not dead, thank God,” said Sylvia, who had 
thrust her hand into the maiden’s bosom and felt her heart 
beating, though ever so softly, as if it had been scared into 
a mere whispered pulsation ; ” she is not dead, and needs 
all your care and attention, so don’t give way again, please. 
Here, take this,” handing her the bottle of Cologne water, 
” and while you bathe her head with it, I will chafe her 
hands.” 

Elsie Brown, who had come on deck during the first ex- 
citement with regard to the burning vessel, and who had 
been busy ministering to the comfort of the women and chil- 
dren who had been brought aboard, now came upon the 
group in which Sylvia’s interest was centred. 

” What’s the matter. Miss Sylvy ?” she asked. 

Sylvia explained in a few words, and she hurried away to 
the cabin. 

The old lady had looked up at the sound of another 
voice, and for a moment gazed steadily at Sylvia. ” Merci- 
ful God !” she murmured below her breath ; but the object 


246 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


of her scrutiny was too busy trying to restore animation to 
the patient to notice her, and after that one look and excla- 
mation she returned to her own share in that duty with ner- 
vous trepidation. 

Elsie Brown returned in a few minutes with a cup in her 
hand. “ Here, ma’am,’* she said to the old lady, “ you 
take this here ; it’s fust-rate vinegar, an’ll do a power more 
good than that air French stuff.” 

The other laid aside the bottle and took the cup from 
Elsie, casting a quick side glance at her as she did so, and 
was proceeding to pour the vinegar into her hand. 

“Not that a way, not that a way,” cried Elsie, laying her 
hand on the cup ; “ take yer hankercher an’ wet it. There, 
that’s it, now. You see the vinegar be sharp, an’ ef it was 
to git in her eyes it mout hurt ’em, poor critur.” 

“ Ah !” said Sylvia, who had been patiently rubbing the 
girl’s hands all this time, “ they are getting warm at last. 
Feel them, Elsie.” 

“So they be,” said Elsie, taking one of the soft white 
hands in her own, and rubbing it with a gentleness one 
would have supposed entirely foreign to her rough nature : 
“ she’ll be a cornin’ round terectly. What a putty critur 
she be, to be sure,” she continued, looking with admiration 
at the fair young face, “ an’ what a power a lovely hair she 
a got — jest for all the world like a heep a gole rings a twist- 
in’ an’ a curlin’ about her ! Jest to think ! ef she’d been 
burnt up in that there ship yonder.” 

“Hush, Elsie,” said Sylvia; “don’t talk about such 
things — it is too horrible to think of.” 

“ No more I won’t. Miss Sylvy ; it be horrible, an’ that's 
the truth. I ain’t got no use for ships no ways, an’ lest 
now than afore. No, give me a wagin, says I, when there’s 
any travelin’ to be done. The most bosses can do is to run 
away, an’ then a body can take ther chances an’ jump ; but 
here, ef you jumps oaten the fire, you jumps inter the water, 
an’ drownin’ ain’t much better’n roastin’, I reckon — least- 
ways ef the water be cole. ’ ’ 

“ Thank God !” ejaculated the old lady, and her excla- 
mation sounded strangely as a climax to Elsie’s talk. Dur- 
ing the colloquy between the other two she had never looked 
up ; but now she was looking earnestly and tearfully in Syl- 
via’s face. 

“ What is it ?” asked Sylvia. 

“ She opened her eyes — just for an instant. O my dar- 
ling ! my darling ! the Holy Virgin be praised, you are not 
dead. And you, miss,” said the old lady, “how can I 


AT SEA, 


247 


ever thank you ? Without you I’m sure I don’t know what 
I should have done.” 

” Of course I’m very glad to have been of any assistance 
to you, madam,” replied Sylvia; ” but the young lady 
would have doubtless recovered without my help.” 

” Yes, yes, perhaps so ; but that doesn’t lessen the obli- 
gation we are under to you. But you mustn’t think I’m a 
weak, silly old woman because I gave way as I did. I have 
nursed the sick, and am counted a good nurse ; but what 
with all I have endured in the last two hours or more, I am 
not myself at all — my nerves have been completely upset.” 

” I can well believe it,” said Sylvia. 

” Ah, my sweet Clarissa,” resumed the old lady, gently 
stroking the hair of the girl, who began slowly to show signs 
of returning animation, ” what a scene for you to have gone 
through !” 

” Clarissa,” said Sylvia ; ” is that her name ?” 

” Yes ; Clarissa Wetherby. ” 

” It is a pretty name and the speaker leaned over and 
kissed the fair young face. 

Why is it that we lay so much stress on a pretty name ? 
It seems foolish, and it is foolish ; but, nevertheless, it is 
so. ‘‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” 
Bah ! that’s all very fine, most noble bard, but I doubt if 
we should prize our Rose so highly if she were named Jimsen 
Weed — vulgarly so called — the poor, homely jimsen weed, 
whose virtues are only acknowledged and valued by a few 
unhappy asthmatics, as our real virtues are only valued by a 
few exceptional people who look below the surface of things. 

Bayard would never have descended to us, through the 
pages of history, as the synonym of all that is chivalrous 
and heroic, had he been known among his compeers as Bill 
Jones ; and Roland and Oliver would have sunk, crushed 
into utter insignificance, under the weight of Riggins and 
Wiggins. The tragic muse herself would have been unequal 
to the task of sustaining them in their true characters : 
mankind would have persisted in considering them the 
funny men of their day, and all their brave deeds would 
have passed for so many good — though rather serious — 
practical jokes. Aye, the tragedy would have degenerated 
into burlesque, and where we now cry, ” Bravo, Roland ! 
Noble Oliver !” we would shout, ” Bully for Riggins ! Go 
it, Wiggins !” 

But, as the average modern statesman is wont to say, 
whither are we drifting ? Into the profound depths of plii- 
losophy — the philosophy of nomenclature — and philosophy 


24S 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


and fiction are opposing quantities. Let us return to the 
group on the deck of the Shooting Star. 

“ Where’s Mister Oliver, Miss Sylvy ?’* asked Elsie. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Sylvia : ” but I sup- 
pose he is doing what he can to help the poor people.” 

” I hopes he ain’t gone an’ gone off in one a them there 
boats.” 

” No, he didn’t go in either of the boats ; he was stand- 
ing by me when these two ladies and the others came on 
board our ship. Ah ! here he is now. We have been won- 
dering what could have become of you, Ollie,” said the 
girl ; and the old lady looked up and regarded the young 
man earnestly for a few moments. 

” I’ve been assisting the captain,” said Oliver, gazing 
absently at the young girl lying on the deck ; ” but can I 
help you ?” 

At this moment Clarissa opened her eyes and looked at 
the group gathered around her. ” Oh !” she said, and 
closed them again. 

“We are saved, darling, saved !” cried the old lady, 
leaning over her. 

In a few minutes she opened her eyes once more, and her 
glance rested on Sylvia. “ Ah !” she said, this time her gaze 
seeming to cling to the beautiful face that had ’first attracted 
it, “ where am I ? and where is Mrs. Gwyn ? O Mrs. Gwyn ! 
where are you ?” 

“ Here I am, darling,” said the old lady, clasping the 
lithe form in her arms, “ here I am ; and glad I am, sure, 
that you’re not dead, as I thought you were.” 

“ No, I’m not dead, Mrs. Gwyn,” said Clarissa, looking 
up at the old lady with a faint smile on her lips ; “ but, oh ! 
I’m so tired.” 

“ Yes, yes, darling. I’m sure you must be. Lie still a 
little while, and you will feel better.” 

“ I think if we could get her into the cabin now it would 
be better,” said Sylvia ; “ but how are we to do it 

“ Wait a minute,” said Oliver ; “I think I can manage 
it.” The young man was not gone long, and when he re- 
turned he was accompanied by the steward, who carried a 
loilg, narrow mattress belonging to one of the berths. 
“Now, steward,” he said, “lay that on the deck; and, 
Elsie — you are as strong as an ox, I know — lift the young 
lady and put her on it. ’ ’ 

Elsie picked the girl up as she might have done an in- 
fant. “Why, Mister Ollie,” she said, “I could toat her 
jest so ’thout any trouble.” 


AT SEA, 


249 

“ Fve no doubt you could, Elsie,’' replied Oliver, laugh- 
ing, “ if you were not so uncertain about your legs since you 
came to sea ; but the ship rolls too much — and I know you 
can’t go down the cabin stairs without something to hold on 
to — so I think we had better not risk it.” 

Elsie, who could not deny facts patent to all aboard the 
ship, and which had made her the victim of jokes from every 
sailor in whose neighborhood she happened to tumble about 
whenever she ventured on deck, laid her burden on the mat- 
tress, and in a few minutes it was deposited safely in the 
cabin. 

Returning on deck with the image of that beautiful, deli- 
cate creature in his mind, Oliver Maxwell leaned against the 
bulwarks and watched the destruction going on a short dis- 
tance off. ” My God,” he said, and a shudder passed 
through every nerve in him, ” what a fate she escaped !” 

When the fire was first discovered in the fore-hold of the 
doomed ship, and it was found impossible to check it, the 
captain had put her before the wind, lowering the yards of 
the main and mizzen masts, and throwing them into the sea, 
so as to give the flames as little to feed upon as possible. 
The same would have been done by the foremast, but it 
soon became too hot there for the sailors to work, and sails 
and rigging were licked up with avidity by the destroying 
element. 

The captain was a cool, determined man, and had the 
passengers been as completely under his control as the crew 
was, it is possible no lives would have been lost. As it 
was, those who disobeyed his orders were the ones who 
suffered. There were two boats available — the third be- 
longing to the ship having been destroyed by the fire — and 
these two boats could have saved nearly all had it not been 
for the folly or villany of a few unruly men, who sought to 
save themselves, without regard to the fate of their fellow- 
passengers. 

The captain had made his preparations with wise calcula- 
tion, and the largest boat was being lowered, when a dozen 
stout fellows, with preconcerted action, leaped into her, and 
two of them, whipping out their knives, cut the ropes be- 
fore she touched the water. The consequence was, the bow 
tackle being severed an instant before the other, she went 
down head foremost, and filled, leaving the men floating in 
the water. The people left on board, filled with consterna- 
tion at this unlooked-for catastrophe, had neither the time 
nor the means to render assistance to the authors of it, and 
one by one they became exhausted and sank. Two or three 


250 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


succeeded in seizing the ends of ropes which hung over the 
ship’s bow, but were unable to clamber on deck, and clung 
to these frail holds on life with silent agony until the re- 
lentless fire cut them in twain, when they too went down. 

The captain was now reduced to a terrible strait. How 
was he to select a portion of the human beings around him, 
beseeching him to save them, and put them in the only boat, 
and at the same time prevail upon the others to quietly 
acquiesce in what he did ? But he did it. The boat was 
lowered, and he ordered the first mate to take charge of her 
with a crew that he- had himself selected, and then, while he 
placed the weakest of his passengers in her, by sheer force 
of character he kept the balance at bay. This accom- 
plished, he went to work with those who were left of his 
crew to construct a raft, while a few of the more resolute of 
the passengers were detailed to watch the progress of the 
flames, and keep them in check as much as possible. While 
thus engaged, the Shooting Star hove in sight, coming down 
before the wind like a great white angel bringing hope and 
joy to this little company of despairing souls. 

There were boats enough now, not only for the people, 
but for part of their effects, and as long as it was deemed 
prudent, they hung afound the ship, saving what they 
could ; but very soon they were obliged to desist, and re- 
turned to the Shooting Star. 

The fire had by this time reached the mainmast of the 
burning vessel, and the flames ran up the rigging like fiery 
serpents, till not a rope was left untouched by their consum- 
ing tongues. No longer under the control of man, she went 
round and round — the gallant bark had become a poor help- 
less thing — drifting away to meet her doom alone on the 
deep. At last the mainmast came down with a crash and a 
hiss, sending up a huge jet of sparks ; and later on the miz- 
zenmast followed ; but she was too distant then for the 
crash and hiss to be heard. Soon those standing on the 
deck of the Shooting Star, now sailing bravely away on her 
proper course, could see nothing but a lurid glare in the sky, 
over which hung a heavy column of black smoke, to mark 
the place where the ill-fated ship was rapidly approaching 
her end. 


** GIVE THANKS UNTO THE LORDN 


25 ^ 


CHAPTER II. 

‘‘ OH GIVE THANKS UNTO THE LORD ; FOR HE IS GOOD : 

FOR HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOREVER.’' 

The day after the rescue of the crew and passengers of 
the burnt ship Gladiator was Sunday. Captain Thompson, 
who was a Christian, always held divine services on Sun- 
day, and he resolved that this particular day should also be 
a day of general thanksgiving on board his ship ; and when 
could a more appropriate occasion be found for giving 
thanks to the Lord of all than the day following such an 
event as that narrated in the preceding chapter of this story ? 
Too often are occasions of wonderful deliverance from 
suffering and death passed over, even by those who have the 
most cause for thankfulness, simply as remarkable events in 
life, while “He who sitteth upon the flood’’ is never 
thought of. It were well if we heard more of thanksgiving 
days at sea, especially after the miraculous escapes of which 
we sometimes read in newspaper reports. 

Having read the morning service to the assembled ship’s 
company. Captain Thompson selected some of those passages 
from the Psalms in which the grand old Hebrew poet-king 
— though he had never seen the vast oceans of the earth — 
seems to have appreciated so fully their grandeur and 
majesty, and the perils of those who traverse them. The 
roughest sailor there felt that the Lord, “ He who ruleth 
the raging of the sea, and stilleth the waves thereof,” was 
the Lord of the children of the sea, as well as they of the 
land. 

After the services were over, the crew and passengers dis- 
persed about in groups on deck. The cook had received 
orders to prepare a better dinner than usual for all hands, 
and while waiting for the serving of that meal they amused 
themselves and each other in various ways, but chiefly by 
relating incidents of the previous night’s catastrophe. 

“ Tom,” said one of the younger sailors to an old 
weather-beaten shipmate, as the two sat enjoying their pipes 
in the sun on the forecastle, “ what d’yer think o’ this here 
preachin’ an’ prayin’ aboard ship, anyhow ? D’yer reckon 
now ’t’s any good ?’’ 

“Well, Ned,” replied Tom, taking his pipe out of his 
mouth and looking at it thoughtfully, “ I s’pose I must be 
nigh ’bout twicet as old as you be, an’ I’se seed some sights 


252 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


the likes o' w’ich, maybe, you’ll never look on ; an' let me 
tell yer, I thinks ef there was a leettle more preachin' an' 
prayin’, and a leettle less cussin’ an’ swearin', aboard ship, it 
'uld be all the better for all ban’s. Why, look’e here, Ned : 
I’ve seed some o’ the wuss men what ever sailed the sea — 
an' that’s sayin' a heep, I kin tell ye — reg’lar man-eaters I 
calls 'em, what spent ther lives,, mornin', noon, an' night, a 
ravin' an' a cussin’ like madmen, and a knockin' an' a 
kickin' men about like they wus cats an' dogs. I've seed 
them men brought to sich a pass that they'd a give ship an' 
cargo ef they’d jist knowed how to pray — jest the least bit 
in the world. It's all wery well in fair weather to larf at a 
prayin' sailor, but I've seed one o' them prayin' sailors have 
to pray fur a whole ship's crew, skipper an’ all ; an' in sich 
times as that, I kin tell yer, you’ll allers find the prayin' 
sailor's coolest han ' aboard ship, an’ the most to be de- 
pended on all times. I had a messmate onct o’ that sort. 
He used to pray mornin' an' night, no matter what hap- 
pened ; an' I used to think he was a brave chap to knell 
down there in the forc’zel an' pray midst the jeerin’ an' 
cussin' o' about the hardes' set o’ scoundrels it’s ever been 
my luck to sail with ; but I’d a never knowed how brave 
Dick Brown was ef somethin’ hadn’t happened that tried 
every man o' us, an' proved which wus brave an’ which 
wusn’t.” 

What wus that, Tom ?" asked Ned. 

“ Well, ye see," said Tom, "when Dick came aboard 
the brig at New York, he wus sich a mild-mannered chap 
that the rest, a rough lot — they wusn’t wild, like many a 
good feller I've knowed, but downright wicious an' bad — 
they set upon him to onct, an' I wus the on'y one as took his 
part ; fur, I tell ye, Ned, I never wus one o’ them kind. 
We sailed for Rio to git a cargo o' coffee, an’ all the v’yage 
down they worritted him in all manner o’ ways, an’ played 
the meanest kind o' tricks on him, 'specially when he wus 
readin' his Bible or prayin’. Howsomdever, he never let 
on as though he noticed it, an’ never said a onmannerly 
word to nobody, an’ ef they’d been any thing but what they 
wus, they'd a let him alone ; but they didn’t, though I did 
all I could to stop it. 

"We’d got our cargo, an' wus a makin’ the home’ard 
v’yage, when the yaller fever broke out 'mongst us. We’d 
got in 'mongst them Bahamas, an’ a dead calm had sot in — 
one o' them there calms what lasts sometimes fur two or 
three weeks. Ugh ! how hot it was ! On deck ’twas like 
settin’ right down in the middle o’ a fire, an’ ’twen decks 


** GIVE THANKS UNTO THE LORDN 


253 


'twiis like bein’ in a blazin’ hot oven ; no chice there, I kin 
tell ye. It seems like there’d be moughty leettle chance fur 
a sick man at sich a time as that. Me an’ another man — 
one o’ the wust in the lot — wus tuck down fust, an’ soon 
arter the skipper an’ fust mate an’ two more wus laid up. 
Then the real grit o’ Dick Brown showed itself. The sec- 
ond mate an’ what men wus left swore they wouldn’t stay 
on the brig, an’ Dick, though he tried hard to persuade ’em 
not to desart us, couldn’t keep ’em from goin’, so they tuck 
one o’ the boats, an’ some perwisions, an’ put out, an’ he 
was the on’y well man left on board. 

“ How he managed to nuss us all an’ ’tend to what wus 
needful ’thout breakin’ down hi’ self has allers been a puz- 
zler to me ; but he did it, an’ he told me arterwards it wus 
by prayin’ he got strength an’ pashunce, an’ so wus able to 
see us through. He’d seed some’at o’ the yaller fever 
afore, an’ knowed what to do fur us, so that most on us got 
well — the fust mate an’ one man died, an’ Dick buried ’em 
quietly all by hi’self — but ef it hadn’t a been a dead calm 
all the time it ’uld a been mouty leettle odds whether we got 
well o’ the fever or not, for he couldn’t a handled the brig 
alone, an’ we’d a all gone to the bottom sooner or later. 
The quarest thing about it is, that Dick, who’d never had 
the fever, didn’t git it then.” 

” An’ you thinks the prayin’ wus at the bottom o’ it, 
Tom?” asked Ned. 

” Ay, in course I does,” replied Tom, knocking the ashes 
out of his pipe. ” I tell ye what, Ned : Cap’en Tompson 
be the fust prayin’ skipper I ever sailed along o’, an’ I 
never seed a ship where every thing went along so smooth 
an’ easy like afore. I’ve been with him three v’yages now, 
an’ I means to stay with him long as he’ll let me.” 

” Well, shipmate, I’m blest ef I don’t b’lieve you be 
right,” said Ned musingly. ” What we most gin ’rally gits 
on shipboard is cusses an’ hard licks ; but we don’t see 
nor hear none o’ that here, an’ all ban’s seem to onderstan’ 
it somehows, an’ does ther work with a good-will. I’ll stick 
by the ship, too, Tom, as long as you does.” 

On the quarter-deck sat Sylvia Maxwell and Clarissa 
Wetherby. There was very little, if any, difference in their 
ages ; but there was a striking contrast between them, both 
of form and feature. Sylvia was tall, and rather stately for 
a damsel of her years, with features approaching the Roman 
rather than the Grecian type ; something more marked and 
decided — indicating greater strength of purpose — than the 
Greek ideal, yet not so severe as the true Roman, which ap- 


254 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


proaches so near to the Hebrew, a race whose strength of 
purpose has always degenerated into headstrong, stiff-necked 
persistency, even when it led to their own destruction. Her 
eyes were large and dark, though not black ; and her hair, a 
rich nut-brown, floated away from her fair, well-developed 
forehead in successive waves — as the sea runs away from the 
white and dazzling beach — converging to form a luxuriant 
coil at the back of the head — simple, but far more elegant 
than any of the wonderful headpieces accomplished by the 
perruquier’s tortuous art. 

Clarissa Wetherby was rather small, slight and graceful, 
fair and bright. Her face was a pure oval, her features reg- 
ular ; eyes, dark gray, sparkling as diamonds when she was 
animated ; nose straight and thin, and lips full and curling, 
like those of a little child. Her hair — oh, her hair ! — a shin- 
ing mass of golden curls, was looped up in a festoon behind, 
falling thence in a perfect Danaec shower over her drooping 
shoulders. Clarissa Wetherby was one of those beauties 
who, like the lilies, of which they are typical, droop and 
fade early ; and Sylvia Maxwell would not, probably, reach 
the zenith of her noonday splendor e’er the chief attractions 
of her companion would have begun to disappear. 

But when does youth consider the stability — the capability 
to resist wear and tear of time, if I may so express it — of 
the beauty that attracts it ? While we are yet young we 
laugh at Time, though he is continually touching us up — im- 
proving us according to his ideas : putting in a wrinkle 
here, and pulling out a few hairs there — hardening us and 
toning us down all the while to a sober yellow tint — until 
scrutinizing ourselves a little more closely than usual some 
morning in the looking-glass, we suddenly, to our intense 
mortification, discover that we are not at all what we 
thought we were ; that many of our “ points,” on which we 
had specially plumed ourselves, have disappeared entirely, 
or become so hideously exaggerated as almost to scare us 
when we ” see ourselves (for the first time) as others see 
us.” Thus our sweet complexions of peaches and cream, 
or roses and lilies, have been slowly mingled and mingled, 
and seasoned with sunshine and weather, by the grinning 
old monster who prepares the dessert to our banquet of life, 
until they have become tawny orange; while our dimples 
have been raked at with his rusty old scythe until they have 
expanded into furrows like scars, and our fine aquiline 
noses hewed and mauled and pulled into formidable beaks 
such as eagles or condors might be proud of. 

So Oliver Maxwell, unmindful of the ultimate fate of 


''GIVE THANKS UNTO THE LORD! 


2SS 


beauty, had been perfectly enraptured with the delicate love- 
liness of Clarissa Wetherby from the first moment he had 
looked upon her lying unconscious on the deck of the Shoot- 
ing Star. He had never seen any being like her before. 
There was something wonderfully ethereal about her ; and 
he sat at a little distance, now, looking at her as he might 
have looked at a fairy or an angel had one appeared before 
him. 

“O Sylvia!'" said Clarissa, “I wonder if I shall ever 
forget the misery and terror of last night." 

The two girls had become quite familiar in their inter- 
course almost immediately, as young girls, unused to the con- 
ventionalities and formalities of society, generally will when 
thrown in contact. 

" I don’t suppose you ever will," replied Sylvia ; " last 
night’s adventure is one not likely to be forgotten, even by 
those who were at a safe distance from the danger." 

" Ah !" and the frail young thing shut her eyes and shud- 
dered with horror, as in her fancy she recalled the terrible 
scenes of the night before. " I think I shall dream of it all 
my life, even should I live to be a hundred years old. Oh ! 
you don’t know what it is to stand between fire and water, 
with death awaiting you whichever way you turn." 

" I can well imagine what it is," responded Sylvia, twin- 
ing her arm lovingly around her companion’s neck, and lay- 
ing the lovely head upon her shoulder, while she gently 
stroked the hair from her temples ; " but don’t you think 
about it now, dear : the danger is past, and you are safe, 
thank God !" 

" Yes, yes," sobbed Clarissa, nestling closer to her new- 
found friend, " I never knew what it was to be really thank- 
ful before — indeed, I never knew that I had any thing to be 
especially thankful for — until I saw those poor people on 
that ship, and felt that I was only like one of them myself, 
after all. O Sylvia ! I was like the lady in the dream, in 
the poem we used to read at school. ' ’ 

Sylvia did not try to check her tears, which were flowing 
freely, but sat with her arm twined round her, cooing sooth- 
ingly to her, now and then, until she became quiet of her 
own accord, and then she beckoned to her brother. " What 
is that you are reading, Ollie ?" she asked, when he joined 
them. 

He had a book in his hand ; but he had not been 
reading it : he had been rather deeply absorbed in a charm- 
ing page from the book of nature, and he blushed a little 
when he replied. " This ?" he said, holding up the book, 


256 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


** Oh ! it is ‘ Childe Harold/ I want to post myself up on 
Italy, and I think it is about the best, and certainly the 
most entertaining handbook on that subject that one can 
find.’^ 

“ My brother thinks ‘ Childe Harold * the most wonderful 
poem ever written,” said Sylvia to Clarissa, endeavoring to 
interest her in the subject. 

” I have never read it,” responded Clarissa languidly, 
” though I have heard much of it. It’s a very long poem, 
is it not ? I’m always afraid of long poems.” 

“Yes, it is,” replied Oliver ; “ and yet there is not a line 
of it that one would willingly dispense with, which is more 
than can be said of many poems that are much shorter. I 
have one objection to ‘ Childe Harold,* however,” he 
added, laughing. 

“ What is that?” asked his sister. “I always thought 
you considered the poem perfect.” 

“ Perfect, yes, as far as it goes. But the fault I find in 
the ‘ Childe * is that he seems to have cared nothing for the 
art I love.” 

“ Oh !” said Sylvia, comprehending at once ; and “ What 
art, Mr. Maxwell?” asked Clarissa. 

“ The art of painting,” replied the young man. 

“ Oh yes ! I remember now,” said Clarissa : “ your sister 
told me you are a painter, and that is why you are going to 
Italy. But did ‘ Childe Harold ’ really care nothing for 
painting ?” 

“ There is no evidence that Byron — who was ‘ Childe 
Harold,’ you know — ever cared any thing about either the 
painters or their works. I have often thought how much 
more beautiful his poem would have been had he increased 
the length of his fourth canto and told us something about 
those glorious old painters of Italy.” 

“You are right, Ollie,” said Sylvia; “but I never 
thought of it before. And yet I have always thought of 
painters and poets as one fraternity.” 

“And so they are,” said Oliver; “but I fear we love 
our brothers, the poets, more than they love us. Perhaps 
they consider us the mere imitators of that nature which 
they worship, forgetting that we also worship at the same 
shrine.” 

“ As you have the book in your hand, Oliver,” said Syl- 
via, “ suppose you read to us : it will be a pleasant way of 
passing the time.” 

Oliver sat down, and opened his book at the fourth canto 
of “ Childe Harold.” He read, in a style that was pleas- 


“ GIVE THANKS UNTO THE LORDN 


257 


ing, not because he understood the great art of reading well, 
but because he felt the beauty of that he was reading, and 
because he had a pleasing musical voice and good lungs. 

“Ah!” said Clarissa, when he stopped, “howl would 
like to go to Italy !” 

Perhaps you will,” said Sylvia. 

“ Where are you going, Miss Wetherby ?” asked Oliver. 

“To Switzerland,” she replied ; “ somewhere near Lau- 
sanne, on Lake Leman.” 

“ Lake Leman !” exclaimed the young man. “ Just 
wait and hear what ‘ Childe Harold ' has to say about Lake 
Leman and he turned to the third canto, and read By- 
ron’s noble stanzas on that far-famed little corner of the 
earth. “ There ! what do you think of that ?” 

“ Oh ! but that is beautiful,” she said, with a little sigh. 

“ To-morrow I will read the ‘ Prisoner of Chillon,’ ” he 
said. “ The Castle of Chillon, you know, is one of the 
most striking features of the scenery on Lake Leman.” 

“ Thank you,” said Clarissa, whose eyes — dark gray, as I 
described them — had been fixed upon the young man while 
he was reading, with an expression that I can find no com- 
parison for except in a certain picture by Vandyke in the 
Corsini Gallery at Rome. The picture is the portrait of a 
gentleman — and it is inclosed in a box, with a plate of glass 
over it, as something especially precious. I have no doubt 
but that every one who has seen it has been fascinated by 
those eyes, which seem almost to pierce you with their mar- 
vellous earnestness. She was looking at him with that 
same expression when she said “ Thank you, I shall be very 
glad to hear more of it,” she added ; ” for it is beautiful, 
oh, so beautiful ! ” 

“Yes,” said Oliver musingly, and gazing into the eyes 
that were looking at him, absently, as though he did not 
know he was doing so, “ there are both beauty and gran- 
deur in it, just as we shall find in the scenery of Switzer- 
land, I imagine.” 

Just then Mrs. Gwyn approached the little group. Being 
a Roman Catholic, she had remained in the stateroom that 
had been allotted to her all the morning, where she had per- 
formed her acts of devotion all alone according to the ritual 
of her church. “ Come, my dear,” she said to Clarissa, 
“ the steward says that dinner will soon be ready, and if 
you have any preparations to make, you had better go 
down.” 

“ O Mrs. Gwyn !” said the girl, with a musical little 
laugh, ‘ ‘ what are you thinking about ? What preparations 


25S 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


can I have to make when all I've got is on my back at this 
moment ?” 

“ Sure, and that's true," said Mrs. Gwyn, who had a very 
slight Irish accent in her speech, “ sure and that’s true, 
and what could I have been thinking about? I don’t 
know what Captain Donovan” — that was the name of the 
captain of the Gladiator — ” could have been thinking about 
when he was saving the things of all those people, to leave 
a lady’s baggage to be burnt up.” 

” Ah ! but, Mrs. Gwyn,” said Clarissa, with a sweet into- 
nation of compassion in her voice, ” I’m sure the captain 
did just what was right. What I have lost may easily be re- 
placed when we get to our journey’s end ; but if those poor 
people had lost their luggage — all perhaps they possessed in 
the world — it would have been a serious thing for them.” 

‘‘ Ah ! yes, to be sure,” said Mrs. Gwyn, looking at the 
girl with affectionate admiration. ” The darling child : to 
think that she should be so thoughtful and considerate while 
the old woman was so thoughtless and selfish.” 

“No, no, you dear old soul,” said Clarissa, softly patting 
the withered cheek as she arose to go below, “ you are nei- 
ther selfish nor thoughtless ; you were just thinking too 
much for me, that’s all.” 

“ Well, perhap)S you’re right,” said the old lady ; “ and, 
sure, I can’t see that I am so much to blame, either ; for 
what you are to do I can’t see : it may be a week or ten 
days before we reach Liverpool, the steward tells me.” 

“ Perhaps I may be able to help her,” said Sylvia ; “I 
have an abundance of clothes.” 

“You, my dear?” said Mrs. Gwyn, while Clarissa 
laughed as she surveyed the tall figure of her friend. 
“ Why, your clothes would never fit her.” 

“ But they can be made to fit,” said Sylvia. 

“ Ah ! but who is to do it ?” asked Clarissa. 

“ We have no one who could do it without spoiling 
them,” said Mrs. Gwyn. ” I have always been a poor hand 
at such work.” 

‘ ‘ I will do it myself, ' ’ said Sylvia, ‘ ‘ and we will go to 
work to-morrow.” 

‘ ‘ Ah, how good you are ! and how shall I ever be able to 
repay you for all you have done for me ?” said Clarissa, put- 
ting her arms around Sylvia’s neck and kissing her, while 
Mrs. Gwyn looked as if she would like to do the same thing. 

“ You may depend upon Sylvy,” said Oliver, who had 
been listening in silence to this essentially feminine collo- 
quy ; “ needlework is one of the fine arts with her.” 


CORRESPONDENCE, 


259 


“And poor me,“ said Clarissa dolefully; “I cannot 
! even hem a handkerchief decently ; but that all comes of 
i; having been sent to a fashionable boarding-school — I wish I 
j had been taught something useful,” she added, with a sigh. 

I “ There is time enough to learn the useful arts yet Miss 
I Wethersby,” said Oliver, laughing. “ Sylvy can teach you 
some of them, such as sewing and cooking, and in exchange 
you can teach her some of the things you learned at board- 
ing-school.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know what I learned there,” said 
Clarissa ; ‘ ‘ your sister seems to know more about every 
thing than I do, Mr. Maxwell.” 

“ Oh, no, no !” said Sylvia, blushing rosy red, “ don’t say 
that ; you will make Ollie think I have been trying to be 
i pedantic. You have just the knowledge that I would like 
i to have now. You understand French — and German and 
Italian?” 

; “Oh yes,” said Clarissa, interrupting her, “boarding- 
school French and German and Italian. I doubt if I could 
I make a native understand me in either language, even if I 
i wanted so simple a matter as a glass of water ; and I have no 
doubt but that you will be proficient in all three in less than 
a year, for you already know something of French, and you 
told me you intended to study hard, and learn all you 
could.” 

“ And you can play on the piano-forte,” said Sylvia. 

“ After a fashion,” admitted Clarissa ; “ but — ” 

Just then the bell rang for dinner in the cabin, and the 
discussion was interrupted. There is no telling into what 
depths of knowledge it might have extended but for the 
clang of that bell, which awakes in the mind an anxious de- 
sire to penetrate the mysteries of an art which affect not so 
much the intellectual as the physical man. 


CHAPTER III. 

CORRESPONDENCE. 

“ Rome, . 

** My dear Clarissa : I told you, when I left you at 
the sweet little villa on Lake Leman, that I would write to 
you as soon as we arrived in Rome ; but I have not kept 
my promise to the letter, for which you must forgive me. 
My intention was so far good that I had actually addressed 


26 o 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


the envelope and made every preparation to begin my epis- 
tle, when a servant came to inform me that il signore — that 
meant Oliver — had engaged a vettura to take us to the Vati- 
can, and was waiting for me below. Obedience, you know, 
is the foundation, or rather corner-stone, of virtue in woman 
— at least, so we have been taught, from the days of St. 
Paul to the present time — and of course there was nothing 
for me to do but to dismiss my own affairs and obey the 
summons of my superior spirit, man. That was a week ago, 
and since then I have been on the go every day from morn- 
ing till night without cessation or rest. 

“ A week ago. How my ideas have changed, or perhaps 
I should say enlarged, in that little while ! VVhat a wonder- 
ful city is this Rome, ancient and modern ! It all appears 
ancient enough to our American eyes, accustomed as they 
are to every thing fresh and new. 

‘ ‘ Thanks to the careful teaching of our good old school- 
master, about whom I told you something during the de- 
lightful week we spent with you, Oliver and I can visit the 
different localities of interest without displaying any very 
surprising degree of ignorance ; we can look at the Arch of 
Titus, or Trajan’s Column, without having to ask who 
those ‘ fellows ’ were, as we heard one of our countrymen 
do the other day. The gentleman in question was by no 
means an ignoramus, however, as a horrified Englishman 
who heard him seemed to think. He knew nothing of an- 
cient lore, it is true ; but he could have told the other some- 
thing about modern inventions that would have astonished 
his classical understand somewhat. 

‘ ‘ I might be pedantic — one can easily be so with the help 
of good Mr. Murray — but I will rather be merciful and 
spare you. I will not try to write a letter that will drive you 
distracted between encyclopedias and histories, just to show 
you how learned I am in matters wherein my knowledge is 
really most superficial. I think I know enough to appreci- 
ate in a pleasant degree that which I see, and that is about 
all, my dear. 

“ Perhaps you will like to know what were my first im- 
pressions with regard to St. Peter’s. To be candid, I don’t 
think I had any. The first time I saw the church was the 
day we visited the Vatican ; and approaching it from the 
city one sees nothing but the fagade, with the long colon- 
nades starting from either side, and running around the 
piazza, a wide open space in front. We know the vast edi- 
fice is there, but it seems to be hidden by a high wall. I 
don’t know what to compare my feelings to unless lo those 


CORRESPONDENCE, 


261 


of a very littly pigmy approaching the upturned feet of a 
huge giant lying prone upon the ground. The little fellow 
can see nothing but the anatomy of the great feet, with their 
sinews and veins like columns, and the' toes like statues 
' above, though he knows the monster to whom they belong 
lies beyond, and to get a view of his tremendous propor- 
tions, he must climb a high hill at some little distance, and 
thence look down upon him. 

“ There now ! I told you I had no first impressions with 
' regard to St. Peter’s ; but I find I had, though I did not 
I know it until I came to write about it. 

“ How can I explain to you, dear friend, the thoughts 
which filled my mind, and the sensations they produced, as 
I entered the papal palace and walked through its immense 
galleries filled with the choicest works of art ? I was in a 
dream. The present was dead to me, and I was sur- 
• rounded by those wondrous spirits of the past. As I passed 
: through the famous chambers of Raphael, I saw, in my 
fancy, that divine artist, assisted by his pupils, busy trans- 
ferring to the walls those splendid designs which give his 
name to this suite of rooms. What a worker he was ! How 
one marvels while looking over a list of his works to think 
that he who did so much died at the age of thirty-seven ! 
What genius ! what energy ! We are apt to associate ar- 
tists — at least painters — with quietude ; we imagine their 
lives as necessarily sedentary — poetic, but lacking in activ-^ 
ity. But with Raphael how different it must have been ! 
What with his busy brain and busy fingers, he must have 
lived in a continual whirl of activity and excitement. If we 
measure man’s existence by what he accomplishes, Raphael 
was a very old man when he died. 

“Ah, glorious Raphael ! prince — king — emperor of paint- 
ers. As I stood in this scene of his labors — what a busy, 
stirring scene it must have been then ! — I seemed to see his 
great friend and patron, Julius II., enter, followed by his 
suite of scarlet cardinals and black-robed priests. Greeting 
his beloved painter with cordial affection, he proceeded to 
! admire the work already completed, pointing out to those 
; who surrounded him the particular beauties that attracted 
1 his eye, finding fault with nothing. Popes and other digni- 
taries did not dare to criticise harshly the pictures of paint- 
ers in those days, you must know, for fear offended genius 
might leave its labors incomplete, or destroy them alto- 
gether. 

“ As we passed out of the Stanze di Naffaello^ we entered 
; the Loggie^ following — in my imagination — in the footsteps 


262 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


of the same great artist, who ornamented those galleries 
for Leo X. It seemed as if I could almost hear his ani- 
mated talk with his favorite pupil, Giulio Romano. They 
were discussing the merits of Raphael’s great rival Michel 
Angelo, and as they reached the grand staircase whic-h 
leads from the Vatican down into the piazza di San Pietro^ 
they met him coming from his labors in the Sistine 
Chapel. The two artists greeted each other with dignity, 
but without cordiality : there was no cordiality between 
great geniuses in those days — their rivalry was like the rivalry 
of kings. 

“ But what am I doing ? Perhaps you will think I had 
as well be pedantic as visionary. The truth is, dear, I have 
ever been much inclined to be visionary : but I always en- 
deavored to hide my weakness from those under whose care 
I was brought up, they being plain matter-of-fact country 
people, who could not understand such things ; now, how- 
ever, I indulge in the propensity sometimes — there being no- 
body to be offended by it. 

“ Ever since Oliver first thought of being a painter, I 
have diligently sought to learn something about the fine 
arts, and those who have distinguished themselves as its 
votaries — reading every thing that related to the subject that 
came within my reach — and I have sometimes astonished 
my good brother by the little knowledge I have managed to 
attain. He does not know, dear old fellow, that for several 
years past I have associated him, in my thoughts, with the 
very scenes by which we are now surrounded, and have been 
doing what little I could to make myself a suitable compan- 
ion for him. 

“ But I have told you nothing about our journey after 
we left you. What can I say that has not already been 
said many, many times, both in prose and verse ? We 
entered Italy by Domo d’Ossola, and as we descended the 
Simplon you can imagine how beautiful the blooming plains 
of Lombardy appeared after the rugged Alps. But every 
traveller has expatiated on that subject more or less, and so 
I will pass on and say no more about it. Our good Elsie 
Brown was the subject of much amusement as well as com- 
miseration during the descent ; but I cannot repeat here all 
the absurd observations and lamentations called forth from 
her by the novelty and apparent danger of her situation. 

“ We passed through Milan, Parma, Modena, Bologna, 
and Florence, stopping a short time in each, ‘ Italia ! O 
Italia ! ’ The gift of beauty certainly is hers, and I marvel 
that any Italian who has left his native land can rest content 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


263 


in any other : I’m sure if I were an expatriated Italian, I 
should pine and die, and I am not surprised that so many 
people from other lands, when they once reach Italy, re- 
main there the balance of their lives. 

“ I don’t suppose you have forgotten the little romance I 
related to you, in which a friend of ours acted the part of 
hero. We expected to find the heroine here, but have 
learned since we arrived that she, with her mother, left 
about two months ago for some place north — no one seems 
to know exactly where — accompanied by a gentleman, to 
whom the latter was privately married just before their de- 
I parture. Ollie seems to think they may have gone to Swit- 
i zerland, where he says there are so many nice, retired places 
in which an old new-married couple might spend their 
honeymoon, secure from the impertinent observations of the 
irreverent ; and as you will, probably, soon be going on the 
excursion your father promised you, he desires me to ask 
you to be on the lookout wherever you may go, and should 
you fall in with them to let us know. Their names are, 
Mr. and Mrs. Tulip and Miss Elenor Weston. For the lat- 
ter we have some important papers, intrusted to us by her 
guardian, and also a letter — which she may think more im- 
portant still — and we are anxious to send them to her, if 
we only knew where to. Do this, my dear Clara, and you 
will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are acting an 
important part in a first-class romance, which I am sure 
will be an all-sufficient reward. 

“ Poor Elsie Brown ! I expect she often wishes she had 
not been so persistent to accompany us abroad : what pos- 
sessed her to come so far I cannot understand — she who 
was nearly terrified out of her wits in making the little jour- 
ney by railway from Atwell to Baltimore. If it was her love 
for my brother and myself, how great, how self-sacrificing 
that love must be ! Poor, simple, single-hearted Elsie ! I 
sometimes wonder what we are to do with her. She will 
' not venture outside of the hotel, and scarcely out of our 
apartments. A day or two after our arrival, about dusk, we 
did prevail upon her to go out with us ; but we had not got 
twenty yards from the door of the hotel when we met a long 
procession of black-cowled monks, chanting one of their sol- 
lemn dirges. Oliver. and I, as by one impulse, turned and 
looked at our companion, who was just behind us. She 
looked more like a frightened yellow cat than any thing else 
I can think of ; but it was only for an instant we saw her. 
with her light-gray eyes stretched to their utmost tension, 
and her straw-colored hair bristling under her bonnet, for 


264 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


she turned and fled back to the hotel with a speed I would 
not have believed her old limbs capable of, had I not seen 
it. 'They was somethin* awful, Miss Sylvv%* she said, 
and nothing now can induce her to put her foot into the 
street. 

" How is dear Mrs. Gwyn ? Do you know, I have had 
some curious sensations in connection with Mrs. Gwyn. 
Sometimes I have an inward consciousness of having known 
her before. There is something about her wonderfully 
familiar — to my spirit, I suppose I must say, for I certainly 
could never have met her before in a corporeal sense — and 
once or twice, while I was living in daily communication 
with her, I have been startled by the flood of indefinable 
recollections that have come over me. I know this is all 
folly, but nevertheless I have tried, and tried in vain, of 
course, to weave these manifestations, as I may call them, 
into some tangible shape. It is like trying to wind off a 
cobweb as one would a skein of silk. I have read of peo- 
ple having such sensations, and I sometimes wonder if Mrs. 
Gwyn ever has them in connection with me. Don’t men- 
tion this to her, please, for it would probably only make her 
think me silly, and I should not like that. 

"And now, dear, I must bid you good-by. I have 
written you a long letter, and shall expect a like one in re- 
turn. Write very, very soon, and tell me all about yourself 
• — what you are doing, seeing, feeling, and thinking — in 
fact, all about yourself, as 1 said. 

" With best regards to your father and Mrs. Gwyn — in 
which Oliver joins me — and much love to your sweet self, I 
remain your affectionate friend, 

" Sylvia Maxwell.*’ 


CHAPTER IV. 

CLARISSA MISSES HER FRIENDS. 

The villa at which Sylvia and Oliver Maxwell had spent a 
week as the guests of Mr. Wetherby and his daughter was not 
far from Lausanne, and overlooked Lake Leman, opposite 
Vevay, the Castle of Chillon, and other places both interest- 
ing and beautiful. The house — a pretty cottage, built in 
the style usual with the Swiss chalet — stood in the midst of a 
little park, and was almost hidden in the foliage of the trees 
that surrounded it. The grounds were very prettily laid 


j CLARISSA MISSES HER FRIENDS. 265 

II 

|j out, and the whole place very attractive to the eye. It 
|: looked like a pleasant kind of hermitage, where one might 
ij have peace and rest without banishing beauty and ease. 

I Here and there among the trees a marble statue was judi- 
! ciously placed, or a fountain sent up a sparkling jet of water 
I — pure, limpid mountain water — and wherever an opening 
, allowed the sun to penetrate, so that roses could be culti- 
vated, splashes of vivid color broke up the mass of green ', 
while, ever and anon, a delicate perfume which stole upon 
the grateful senses proclaimed the presence of violets, hid 
away somewhere in the cool and pleasant shade. At night 
the atmosphere was redolent with sweet odors, which en- 
tirely overpowered the modest prayer of the timid violet, 
and the voice of the nightingale, mingled with the plash of 
the fountains, filled the place with music. A spot where 
natural and artificial beauties were more happily combined 
with sweet seclusion it would have been difficult to find, 
and it is probable the present occupant had chosen it for his 
home as much on account of this latter recommendation as 
any other. Here he spent his time principally in reading ; 
seldom going abroad, and trusting every thing to the ser- 
vants, as he knew he could do with perfect safety — the Swiss 
being generally noted for their strict honesty. 

Mr. Wetherby was a very retiring man in his habits — more 
so than even the extreme weakness of his character, which 
was legibly written on his face, would seem to justify. He 
seemed to have a morbid dislike to being seen by any one. 
He never went to Lausanne, and if strangers came to the 
villa — as they sometimes did,, with the desire to explore the 
beautiful grounds — they never saw him ; but were received 
by a servant, who gave the desired permission with the in- 
formation that the master’s health was such as to forbid his 
seeing any one — which was true enough ; for though physi- 
cally well, the man was certainly mentally sick. 

He had been obliged to go to Liverpool to meet his 
daughter ; but he had taken an unusual route, and had 
seemed nervous and uneasy during the whole journey back, 
and strangely worried if there was the least delay. At the 
earnest solicitation of Clarissa, who had told him all they 
had done for her, he had invited Oliver and Sylvia to spend 
a short time at the villa, informing them at the same time 
that he did not design stopping anywhere on the road. As 
they had no present desire to see either London or Paris, 
purposing to visit both of those great cities, as well as some 
others, at some future day, the invitation had been ac- 
cepted. They had been surprised during the journey to 


266 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


witness Mr. Wetherby’s unaccountable nervousness. Half 
an hour’s delay seemed to make him perfectly miserable ; and 
he had never appeared satisfied except when they were flying 
along by steam on land or sea. He did not seem to be an 
irritable man. The petty annoyances which travellers meet 
with at every turn — exciting the choler of some, putting oth- 
ers in a perfect fume — never ruffled his temper in the least. 
He appeared to be a quiet, melancholy man, with a good 
stock of patience, which never seemed to be exhausted ex- 
cept when there was some unavoidable interruption to their 
progress, and that always put him in a nervous fever of ex- 
citement most unaccountable. When he had reached his 
home at last, and had shut the park gate behind him, he had 
sighed as if relieved from some heavy burden ; and from 
that moment had appeared, in a measure, a* different man. 
None could have been kinder or more solicitous of the com- 
fort and happiness of those around him, and as to his 
daughter, she was evidently the idol of his heart — the one 
thing that gave him delight. 

After her young companions had left her, Clarissa seemed 
at a loss what to do with herself. She felt the isolation of 
her situation more keenly than she would have done had she 
never enjoyed the delight of their society at all. While her 
friends were there, they had together explored every nook 
and corner of the villa, and all the by-paths and roads in 
the neighborhood ; giving to certain spots, where the view 
happened to be particularly enchanting, or which possessed 
some peculiar charms of their own, names which they 
thought appropriate. She wandered, now, to all the differ- 
ent places that they had selected as especially pleasant to 
linger in — that is, within the precincts of the villa ; outside 
she was afraid to venture alone — and with a volume of 
poems, from which Oliver had been wont to read aloud, 
tried to beguile the weary hours. 

There was a walk of about a hundred feet in length which 
they had called “ Apollo’s Arcade,” and this had been one 
of their favorite noonday retreats. The trees here arose on 
each side of the pathway, and their branches interlacing 
overhead, completely shut out the sky, forming that arch 
which architects of Gothic edifices have seized upon and ap- 
propriated. At the further end of tliis arched way, where 
the sun poured down a flood of light, stood a statue of the 
Apollo Belvidere, behind which a fountain sent up a jet of 
water that fell in silvery showers over a bed of roses. For 
a backgound to this picture was a dense mass of foliage of 
every tint of green. 


CLARISSA MISSES HER FRIENDS. 267 

There was another place which they had named ‘‘ The 
Picture.” Here a sort of alcove had been formed in some 
tall, close shrubbery, in which were placed rustic seats. At 
the back of this alcove the shrubbery had been trimmed 
away so as to make an oval-shaped opening, through which 
could be seen Lake Leman, with the Castle of Chillon, 
the rocks of Meillerie, and Vevay. It was indeed a 
picture — a bright, beautiful picture — surrounded by a dark 
frame of verdure ; and there they had loved to sit in the 
afternoon, watching the constantly varying light as the sun 
rode down towards the west. 

There were also ” The Wood Nymphs’ Retreat” and 
” The Water Nymphs’ Home,” and other spots, each pos- 
sessing charms peculiar to itself ; but Clarissa Wetherby did 
not know how much the congenial society of those we love 
contributes to a full appreciation and enjoyment of the 
beautiful until she visited these favorite haunts alone. She 
found they no longer gave her the delight which she had 
experienced when her friends were with her — good things 
must always be shared to be truly enjoyed — and after trying 
in vain to recall the lost spirit of rapture, she came to the 
conclusion that she must find some employment, that sover 
eign cure for en 7 iiii and most other mental diseases. 

” What can I do asked Clarissa No. i, or Clarissa the 
Intellectual, of Clarissa No. 2, or Clarissa the physical ; 
and the two Clarissas debated this question long and anx- 
iously. It occurred to them at one time to go to Mrs. 
Gwyn, who had been installed as housekeeper, and ask for 
some sewing ; and then Clarissa No. i had laughed at 
Clarissa No. 2, and reminded her that if there was one thing 
she had been especially distinguished for among her school- 
fellows, it was her want of proficiency in the art of needle- 
work ; she did not know a gusset from a band, and had 
never been able to sew two pieces of cloth together and 
make them come out right. 

So the seamstress question was laid at rest forever, and 
the debate went on. At last Clarissa No. i concluded there 
was one thing she might do, if Clarissa No. 2 would lend 
her aid. Whal was that ? O shades of Voltaire and 
Rousseau ! — if ye still linger around your favorite earthly 
haunts — she might write a book — a novel — what more easy ? 
This idea held its own for some days, during which Cla- 
rissa No. I tried to settle upon the characters and plot of 
her story, while Clarissa No. 2 sat idly waiting to begin her 
portion of the task. Alas ! these little matters, so necessary 
to the beginning as well as the ending of a novel, proved 


268 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


quite as unmanageable to Clarissa No. i as the sewing had 
been to Clarissa No. 2 ; she couldn’t make them come out 
right, try as she would, and so she gave it up in despair ; 
and with a sigh that came from the bottom of her heart, for 
“ it would have been so nice.” 

But something must be done, and something was settled 
upon after further debating. Why not keep a diary — that 
dernier ressort of so many idle damsels — a journal of daily 
events ? Why not ? But where were the events to come 
from ? Her life at present was altogether uneventful. Never 
mind : she would make a beginning — there was much in 
that — and chance should furnish the events. It was not like 
writing a novel, in which every thing must be settled before- 
hand, and who could tell what time might bring forth ? 

So this important matter was disposed of at last, and 
opening her little rosewood desk — a present from her father 
— Clarissa took out a blank-book that she had intended to 
copy verses into. It had not as yet been soiled by ink, 
however, and turning to the fly-leaf she wrote in large print 
letters, 

CLARISSA WETHERBY’s DIARY — PRIVATE. 


CHAPTER V. 

MR. HAPTON UNVEILS SOME SAD RECOLLECTIONS. 

James Alford had been very successful as a portrait- 
painter. From the time he first opened his studio, he had 
been kept busy, satisfying those for whom he worked, and 
receiving good prices for his pictures, so that he had laid 
by quite a respectable sum of money. With a very few ex- 
ceptions, his subjects had been commonplace people, with 
commonplace faces ; but a few of his sitters had been 
beautiful young women, in the delineation of whose charms 
he had found the only relief to the general monotonous 
drudgery of his occupation. He had at length determined 
to give himself a holiday — to accept no further orders for 
portraits except on condition that the execution of them 
mighf be delayed for at least two months. 

HoVas now enjoying his holiday. How ? He was not 
in the country, whither artists are wont to go to enjoy a 
holiday — he took no especial delight in landscape-painting, 
except in so far as it served as an accessory to humanity- 
painting — but he was in his studio engaged on a picture in 


SAD RECOLLECTIONS, 


269 


which his soul could take delight. Happy man ! He had 
prevailed upon a- beautiful girl, whose portrait he had re- 
cently painted, to sit to him ; but the spirit of the picture 
he hoped to catch from the little sketch he had made of Syl- 
via Maxwell telling the fairy tale ; and he now had it before 
him, and was transferring the general outline of the figure 
to his canvas. While he was thus engaged, Mr. Hapton 
came in from the adjoining room with an open letter in his 
hand. 

“James,” he said, “how long has it been since you 
heard from Elenor Weston ?” 

“ It has been a good while, sir,” replied the young man, 
stopping his work, and half turning in his chair so as to 
face the other. “ 1 think I mentioned it to you at the time 
— about three weeks before Oliver and his sister went away. 
The letter was written in Rome, and had been quite a 
month in reaching me — though, indeed, that is nothing un- 
usual.” 

“ It is nearly two months, then, since you received that 
letter,” said the old man thoughtfully, “ so that it must 
have been written nearly three months ago. Don’t you 
think it strange that you have not heard from her since ?” 

“ Well, I should do so, sir, but you know there has been 
a mail steamer missing now for several weeks, and I think 
it very likely the letter I ought to have got was on board of 
her.” 

“ Ah, yes ! that is so, I remember now ; and that proba- 
bly accounts for your not having received the information 
which has been conveyed to me through this” — holding out 
the letter he had in his hand. “ This is from Elenor, and 
she tells me her mother was recently married — ” 

“To Tulip ?” interrupted Alford, with a start. 

“Yes, I believe that is the name. She says, further, that 
after leaving Rome she found him so unbearable that she 
determined to take the first opportunity of separating herself 
from the party ; and from the balance of the contents I 
judge she has done so, and is now living in retirement, but 
whereabout I cannot make out, as the letter has evidently 
been tampered with.” 

“ Tampered with !” said Alford in surprise ; “ why do 
you think so ?” 

“ Look at it,” replied Mr. Hapton, handing it to him. 
“ The place from which it was written was not Paris ; but 
the name has been scratched out, and Paris substituted for 
it. And look at the body of the letter. Wherever there 
was a word that would have given some indication of her 


2JO 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


place of abode, it has been so tortured and twisted, or 
blurred, as to make it illegible. And now examine the post- 
script : that is a forgery, and reveals at once the design of 
the forger. If I were not an old business man, I might be 
deceived by it ; but I have been too long accustomed to ex- 
amine critically into the characteristics of handwriting, not 
to see that this postscript was not written by Elenor Weston, 
though it is a tolerably good imitation of her general style.” 

Alford read the postscript aloud. ” Please address all 
letters and remittances to the care of Monsieur Grandpre, 
Place del — — , Paris.” He then compared it with the rest 
of the letter. 

” Don’t you see the difference ?” asked Mr. Hapton. 

” Well, there seems to be some slight difference,” he re- 
plied dubiously ; ” but I must confess I should never sus- 
pect it of being a forgery.” 

” Ah ! you have not been accustomed to this sort of 
thing,” said the other, smiling ; ” but I will give you a little 
instruction, and you will see at once. Examine the ua 
and an in guardian, and then look at the an in Grandpre. 
You see that in the former word the u and the n are as dis- 
tinctive in their formations as a and b — you would never 
mistake the one for the other ; while on the contrary, in the 
latter the n is exactly like the u in the former, which is more 
apparent from the manner in which it is connected with the 
a. And examine the two d’s in the same words : don’t you 
perceive how different they are 

Alford nodded his head assentingly while he still held the 
letter before him,' comparing other details of its two parts. 
He now saw that there might be a general similitude in chi- 
rography which would deceive the uninitiated ; but that 
every writer had his own characteristic way of forming each 
letter which it was next to impossible for another to success- 
fully imitate even through a short sentence. 

“You are satisfied that I am right ?” said the old gentle- 
man as the young man handed him back the letter. 

” Yes,” was the reply, ” it is very plain to me now.” 

” I don’t see what I am to do about it,” continued the 
other. • ” The girl will need money ; but I will certainly 
not send any to the care of Monsieur Grandpre.” 

” No, I don’t think it would be wise to do so,” said the 
young man ; “it would be better to wait ; and in the mean 
time I will write to Oliver about it, and he may be able to 
assist us by finding out where Elenor really is.” 

“ Isn’t it a little strange that we have heard nothing from 
them since they left us ?” 


SAD RECOLLECTIONS, 


271 


No, I think not ; you know they crossed in a sailing ship, 
and Oliver told me he would not write until they arrived 
in Rome. We read an account of the arrival of their ship" — 
the Shooting Star — in Liverpool, and how she rescued the 
passengers and crew of a burning ship.” 

‘‘Yes, yes,” said Mr. Hapton, in a musing way. He 
had sat down, and was looking thoughtfully at the sketch of 
Sylvia. ” Ah,” he continued, ‘‘ what a noble pair they 
are! Do you remember, James,” he added, after a long 
pause, during which his eyes had remained fixed upon the 
sketch, ” my telling you something about my brother ?” 

” Yes, sir,” replied Alford, who had returned to his 
work, ‘‘ I remember. You had a portrait of him which was 
destroyed.” 

” Yes,” said the old man. ” I have never spoken of him 
to any one but you, and now I will tell you something more 
about him. It is a sad subject to me,” he continued, with 
a sigh ; and Alford involuntarily looked round at him. His 
face was perfectly calm and still, and his eyes were still fas- 
tened on the sketch of Sylvia — ‘‘ a sad subject ; but I have 
an inexpressible longing just now to talk about him. ” After 
another pause he continued : ‘‘ Henry was my idol,” he 
said. ‘‘ Alas ! I sometimes think that God took him to 
save me, for I believe I loved him better than my own soul. 
Since his death I have kept his image enshrined in my inner- 
most heart — never unveiling it, save for my own contempla- 
tion. I knew that no one could feel the same interest in his 
too short life, and the same regard for his memory that I 
did, and my sorrow was too precious to be shared with an- 
other — if there had been another to share it. 

He was ten years younger than myself ; and when our 
father died he charged me to care for and do for him as if 
he were my son. The good old man need not have been so 
particular and earnest in his instructions, for I already loved 
my brother dearly — as part of myself — and I would have 
died before I would have wronged him. 

” He grew up under my own eye, and when I married, 
my wife soon learned to love him as I did. But she died, 
leaving me childless ; and all my affections and hopes were 
once more centred in him. When he came to the years of 
manhood he was, in my estimation at least, a perfect man — 
thoroughly educated, gentle, delicate, and strong, both in- 
tellectually and physically, full of sympathy for the weak, as 
all noble spirits are, and ready to lend his strength for their 
aid or protection : a purer and more cultivated mind, com- 
bined with a handsomer person, I do not believe could be 


272 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


found among all the beings of God’s creation. Had he left 
a son, that son might have been like Oliver Maxwell ; in- 
deed, the resemblance of Oliver to my brother is so striking 
that it startled me when I first saw the youth. In his sister 
also there is the same resemblance apparent, only softened 
by femininity. ” 

Alford understood now the sad and loving pleasure with 
which the old man had always regarded Oliver and Sylvia. 
During their residence in Baltimore he had always appeared 
most content and happy when in their society ; he had 
sought the young girl especially, and made a companion of 
her, and there had grown up between them that bond of 
sympathy, full of tender fondness, which we often see mani- 
fested between youth and old age. She, of course, did not 
understand the secret cause that drew them together ; but 
she had been prepared beforehand to revere him, and she 
soon learned to love him. He had parted from the brother 
and sister with reluctance when they sailed away. For a 
time he had seemed lost and dispirited — he missed his sweet 
companion sadly — and finally settled down to his former 
ways of life with that weary lassitude which always accom- 
panies a secret sorrow. 

“When Henry came of age,” continued Mr. Flapton, 
“ he was seized with a fancy to see the great West. The 
desire was very natural, for at that time life in the West was 
full of romantic adventure, and possessed great charms for 
the young and hi^h-spirited ; and I let him go without a 
word of opposition. I heard from him occasionally — there 
were few railroads then, except in the Atlantic States, and 
correspondence could not be kept up regularly — but I was 
satisfied so long as I knew that he was well and happy. 

“ About a year after he left me, he wrote to say that he 
was about to be married. I was filled with consternation at 
first, for I could not imagine it possible that he should find 
a wife worthy of him in that wild, rough country ; but read- 
ing further, I was reassured. It seemed he had fallen in 
with an old French gentleman, who had emigrated to Louis- 
iana in hopes of bettering his broken fortunes. From 
Louisiana, where he had met with little success, he had 
moved up the Mississippi River, and settled on a farm, 
where he and his only child — a beautiful and accomplished 
girl — were living when Henry met them. 

“ He brought his bride to see me, and they spent a month 
with me, during which time I discovered in her all the vir- 
tues that I could desire his wife to possess. Before return- 
ing to their Western home, Henry told me he should remain 


sajD recollections. 


273 


there as long as his wife’s father lived ; but when death 
broke that only tie, God willing, he would return to Balti- 
more. In less than a year the old man died, and then he 
wrote to say that he would start upon his journey eastward 
as soon as his wife’s condition would permit — she was ex- 
pecting soon to be confined in childbed. I need not tell 
you with what inexpressible happiness these news filled me ; 
but, alas ! alas ! how suddenly are man’s joyful hopes often 
changed to misery and despair !” 

Here the old man seemed about to break down utterly, as 
a flood of sad recollections poured over his soul, and had 
the artist looked round — but he dared not — he would have 
seen bitter tears streaming over the careworn cheeks. In a 
few minutes he recovered his composure sufficiently to re- 
sume his narrative, though his voice shook as he proceeded. 

“About that time,’’ he continued, “there was an out- 
break of the Indians who occupied the lands west of my 
brother’s home. He joined the other settlers, with his 
rifle, and went out to meet the savages. He was carried 
back dead.’’ The narrator ceased again for a few minutes, 
and covered his face with his hand ; while his auditor, who 
had stopped working, sat silent, but breathing quickly, as 
with suppressed emotion. 

“ There is little more to tell,’’ said Mr. Hapton at last. 
“ The poor young wife fell insensible when the sad news 
was broken to her, and never spoke again. I learned these 
terrible tidings a month or more after the occurrence of the 
facts, through the business agent of a Baltimore house, who 
happened to pass through that section of country, and 
heard them from a rough backwoodsman. The blow com- 
pletely prostrated me ; and feeling that I was unequal to 
the task, I sent another to perform the sad office of remov- 
ing the remains of my brother and his wife to this city ; for 
I wanted them near, dead though they were. Pringle ful- 
filled my wishes to the letter — settled all affairs that needed 
settling, and brought my poor dead home to me — and 
though he has since betrayed my confidence and ruined me, 
I feel that I owe him at least one kind thought for what he 
did then.” 

When the old merchant had finished his sad story, he re- 
tired to his room without uttering another word ; and Al- 
ford sat sorrowfully pondering over the misfortunes of this 
man, whose righteousness seemed to have been of so little 
avail — at least in this world. 


274 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


CHAPTER VI. 

Clarissa’s discovery. 

After Clarissa Wetherby had written, as already stated, 
on the fly-leaf of her little blank-book, she put it away 
again, and did nothing further towards the carrying out of 
her resolution for several days. She was beaten about be- 
tween wind and water in those sore straits in which authors 
so often drift helplessly for days and even weeks. It was 
sad indeed to get into the doldrums at the very outstart ; and 
Clarissa began to fear that she was not even equal to writing 
a diary — a thing that had always seemed so very simple to 
her unsophisticated mind. Then she bethought her that it 
was of no use to write “ private” on the inside of her book, 
as any one happening upon it might open it and read all 
that was in it before finding out that its contents were not 
intended for general inspection. There was nothing in it as 
yet, it was true ; but what of that ? So she cut out a little 
oblong piece of paper, and wrote on that, 

CLARISSA WETHERBY’s DIARY— PRIVATE, 

and pasted it on the back of her book, so there could be no 
mistake about it. Ah ! there was a certain feeling of relief 
even in that little act in connection with her enterprise ; 
and Clarissa sat down to think. Alas ! thinking did no 
good ; her little head — in which the ideas were generally 
bright and clear enough — had not been accustomed to 
think, and soon became muddled and bewildered. 

” Oh !” she sighed, “how shall I ever make a begin- 
ning ?” And then she wandered about aimlessly again for 
a day or two. At last, in sheer desperation, she took up 
her pen, determined to write, though she had not the most 
remote idea as to what she was going to write about. 

Eureka ! ! ! 

The touchstone of ability is endeavor. The man who sits 
down beside his burden and wonders how he will ever be 
able to carry it, will never lift it from the ground. Clarissa 
soon found that the secret in doing most sublunary things 
is, to try. At first she had a good many erasures to make, 
and she completely spoiled the first few pages of her little 
book ; but the further she got from her starting-point, the 
more interested she became in her work ; and as she ad- 


CL A RISSA ’ 5 DISCO VER Y, 275 

vanced, her thoughts, becoming disciplined, learned to march 
connectedly and in order. 

I shall not follow Clarissa’s diary regularly from day to 
day — it might not all prove interesting reading — but I will 
make such extracts from it as will suit the purposes of my 
own story ; trusting that she — amiable and sweet as I know 
her to be — will forgive the liberty I take in spite of that lit- 
tle word of warning she wrote on the fl>;-leaf and back of 
her book. 

EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA’S DIARY. 

June lo^h, 18 — . — Nearly three Weeks have passed since 
my dear Sylvia and her brother left us — left me, I may as 
well say, for what is their presence or absence to papa or 
Mrs. Gwyn ? Oh, how I do miss them ! The places which 
seemed so delightful when they were here have no longer 
any attractions for me ; I feel like a lost spirit in Apollo’s 
Arcade ; and the picture gives me the blues — I can think of 
nothing but that poor prisoner of Chillon when 1 look at it. 

I have tried in vain to amuse myself with books, of which 
my dear papa seems to have the greatest profusion ; and I 
have even thought of taking to needlework — that never-fail- 
ing resource of woman, as it is called by those who know 
nothing at all about it ; but I knew I should only prick my 
fingers, and what would be far worse — put myself in a bad 
temper, so I abandoned the idea as soon as it was con- 
ceived. Then I thought I would write a novel. I have 
plenty of fancy, I’m sure — and that is what is most needed 
in novel writing ; but when I came to get the tilings together 
— the plot, the hero, and the heroine, and the friend, and 
the villain, and all the rest of it— I got them horribly mixed 
up together, somehow, and had to give it up ; so 1 at last 
concluded to keep a diary, which is no great trouble, and is 
a very pleasant occupation — if one can only make a begin- 
ning. 

Well, I have made a beginning, such as it is ; and — ■ 

p.M. — Just as I had got thus far with my writing this 
morning, my attention was attracted to a little bird that 
hopped upon the window-sill with a straw in its beak. I 
remained perfectly still and watched it ; and in a few min- 
utes it flew into the tree that grows near the window. Mov- 
ing cautiously forward, I obtained a position from which I 
could see it without disturbing it. There it was, building 
its little nest almost within reach of the hand of any one 
standing at the window. How carefully it laid the straw on 


276 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


those it had brought before : and then, after arranging it 
satisfactorily, how quickly it flew off to search for another ! 
While it was gone its mate came, also laden with a straw-^ — I 
knew it was the mate, because it was somewhat smaller, and 
the plumage was a little different — not so gay. Why is it 
that among birds and beasts the male is always the hand- 
somer creature — the best dressed, as we may say ? Is the 
order of things reversed when we descend from the human 
family to the brute creation ? and if women were transmi- 
grated — or should I say metempsychosed — into birds, would 
they have to put up with plain clothes, while their lords 
strutted around in gaudy trappings ? Oh, what a terrible 
punishment that would be to some women ! I’m fond of 
pretty things myself ; but I don’t think it would quite break 
my heart to be obliged to do without them. 

I became so much interested in the labors of my two lit- 
tle pets that I quite forgot my own affairs until I was called 
to dinner. My dear papa, who is never very talkative, was 
unusually silent during the whole of the meal. Oh ! why does 
he always have such a sorrowful, troubled look ? Can it be 
he still mourns the death of mamma ? She died so long, 
long ago that I can scarcely remember her. How I wish 
that he would make a confidante of me 1 It really hurts me 
to think that I can be gay and happy when he is so melan- 
choly ; but he seems to like to see me so, though he only 
responds to my efforts to amuse him with the saddest of 
smiles. Ah, how he loves me ! I know it, though he never 
says so. I wonder if I look like mamma. Sometimes when 
I am standing near him he puts his arm around me and 
draws me close to him. I can feel his heart throbbing, and 
I know there is great love for me there, though he never 
says a word. At such moments I often think I will speak 
out boldly, and ask him what it is that weighs him down 
and makes him so sad ; but I have never yet had the courage 
to do so. 

He has been writing all the morning — an unusual thing 
for him. He seems to have few correspondents ; but he re- 
ceived a letter yesterday, and I suppose it required a good 
deal of writing to answer it. I could hear the scratch of his 
pen very plainly whenever I went near my window — the li- 
brary in which he usually spends his time reading is directly 
under my room — and he has torn up some letter or letters, 
and thrown the bits out upon the grass. 

Ah ! there are my two little darlings sitting on a branch 
close to the window, twittering softly to each other. I won- 


CLARISSA^ S DISCOVERY. 


277 

der what they are saying ! It looks as if they were talking 
love. How I would like to understand the bird language, 
like the youth in the fairy tale : how entertaining it would 
be. One need not suffer from emiut then, unless the pretty 
I birds are as silly as some pretty people, in which case it is 
just as well we do not understand their chatter. 

But they seem to have stopped work for to-day, and I 
will follow their example. Goodmight, Betty ; good-night, 
Tim-— thus I have named them — I will sprinkle some crumbs 
1 on the window-sill to-night, so that you may have an early 
I breakfast — good-night. 

; June 11th . — When I awoke this morning, the first thing 
I saw was Betty making her breakfast on the crumbs I 
^ had spread on the window-sill. “ Ah, greedy little thing !” 
I thought, ‘‘ how can you eat it all up by yourself?” but in 
a minute she was joined by her spouse, and they ate their 
simple meal with love and peace, as the wise Solomon has 
told us is best. ” Better is a dry morsel and quietness 
therewith, than an house full of sacrifices with strife,” says 
the philosopher of Scripture, as papa calls him. He seems 
to have a great partiality for Solomon, and often quotes him 
in an absent-minded way, as if the quotation had a bearing 
on the thoughts that for the moment are passing through his 
mind. 

I went out after breakfast this morning to gather some 
roses for the flower-vases. Roses are plentiful and beauti- 
ful here, and the gruff old gardener — rough and unculti- 
vated as he is — seems to love them with a perfect infatua- 
tion ; he hates to see me pluck one. It is indeed wonderful 
to see how tenderly and delicately he handles them with his 
great old knobby hands. I have seen people delicately nur- 
tured, who considered themselves particularly refined and 
elegant, who would yet pass a rose or any other beautiful 
flower by unnoticed, while here is this old man — rude and 
uneducated — who seems to love them as a father does his 
children. If the two were stripped of their exterior cover- 
ing — the one of his artificially polished shell, the other of 
his rugged bark — I wonder in which the spiritual essence, 
the kernel, would be found most excellent. There must be 
some mysterious sympathy under the hard, uncouth exterior 
of that old man which places him en rapport^ as the Spiritu- 
alists would say, with the roses. 

My birdies have nearly completed their nest. They are 
lining it now with bits of old rags and paper. While I 
write, Tim alights on the window-sill with a long strip of 


278 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


paper in his beak. There ! he has dropped it, and it has 
fallen on the floor. 


June — Merciful God ! what is this dreadful sus- 

picion that has seized upon me ? Can it be ? No, I will 
not allow myself to think evil of one I love so dearly. O 
papa ! papa ! how easily you could set my mind at rest, and 
yet I dare not speak. No, no, it cannot be ! you could 
never have been guilty of wrong — no, no, it must be some- 
body else of whom you were writing — not yourself ! not 
yourself ! I have not been able to write or do any thing 
else for several days, I have been so troubled in my mind. 
Oh, what a small matter, unexplained, may fill one with 
misery ! 1 have. been overwhelmed by what my imagination 

— I am sure it can be nothing else — persists in considering 
the secret cause of my father’s sad and solitary existence. 

I picked up the strip of paper that the bird dropped, in- 
tending to throw it out of the window. I had no intention 
of reading what was written upon it ; but inadvertently my 
eyes ran over the words, and I have been unable to banish 
them from my thoughts since ; do what I may, I find myself 
continually repeating them over and over again in my mind. 
This is what 1 read, the paper being so torn as to leave these 
few words perfect : 

‘ ‘ and listening to the insidious advice of Ragan, I robbed 
yo” 

Having read this with a feeling of horror, for the hand- 
writing was my father’s, I involuntarily turned the paper 
over and read what was written on the other side. These 
words I know must refer to me : 

‘ ‘ Alas, my unhappy child ! loving and 

“ knows not that I” 

Ah ! what can this mean ? I have asked myself that 
question so often, vainly searching for a favorable answer to 
it, that my head and heart ache. Poor papa ! I cannot be- 
lieve even what he seems to say of himself. Perhaps he may 
have done wrong — who has not ? But I will think no more 
of it, if I can help it ; it only makes me miserable. 

Perhaps I ought not to have written this in my book ; but 
it has been a relief to me to do so, and some day I will tear 
it out and burn it. 


EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA^ S DIARY. 


279 


CHAPTER VII. 

FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA ’s DIARY. 

i| June 20th . — It is strange that I do not hear from Sylvia. 

! It could not have taken them more than three weeks to 
I make the journey to Rome, stopping a few days at each of 
! the principal cities on the road, as they proposed to do ; 
i and she promised to write as soon as they should arrive at 
‘ their journey’s end. Well, I suppose I must have patience ; 
I will certainly hear from her in course of time. Patience, 
patience, patience ! I have begun to think that patience is 
the one great virtue needful in this world. Old people are 
always preaching it to the young — Mrs. Gwyn keeps it con- 
stantly before my eyes — they have found out by experience 
what a wonderful virtue it is, and that we are obliged to ex- 
ercise it, whether we will or no, in most of the circum- 
stances of life. 

I have succeeded, by the use of numerous blandishments, 
in smoothing down the rough edges of our old gardener’s 
temper somewhat. Exhibiting an interest in his occupation 
I found the most effective way to win his heart, and in a lit- 
tle while we have become great friends. He speaks a sort 
of French, and as I am not a very proficient French scholar 
myself, I expect our conversations — which chiefly relate to 
flowers, their different peculiarities and merits — would be 
highly entertaining to any one who might happen to over- 
hear us. There is no danger from listeners here, however, 
so I chatter away to the old man, regardless of grammar or 
pronunciation, and he thinks I am a regular Parisienne. 

He was attending to some pear grafts a few days ago, and I 
became very much interested in the operation. When he 
had finished the work, I asked how long it would be before 
those little sticks would bear fruit. 

“ Three years, Mam’selle,” he replied. 

“Three years!’’ I exclaimed — for, in my ignorance, I 
certainly thought they would grow to be trees and bear 
fruit in much less time than that. 

“ Yes, Mam’selle,’’ he said. 

“ Oh, what a long time,’’ I cried, “ what a very long time 
you have to wait to reap the fruits of your labor !” 

The old man looked at me with a comical smile — I sup- 
pose he didn’t think three years such a very long time — and 
just muttered “ Patience, patience.’’ 


28 o 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


The same old song — patience. I believe it has the same 
sound in almost all languages. There must be something 
wonderful in the word that it has been adopted as a sort of 
watchword by all manner of men. 

About noonday to-day I thought I would lie down and 
rest ; and it was not long before I fell asleep. I don’t know 
how long I slept ; but I was awakened by the most heart- 
rending shrieks, and hurriedly arose, expecting to find the 
house in a blaze. What was my astonishment to find that all 
the noise was made by my two little friends, Tim and Betty. 
They were fluttering about my window in a perfect parox- 
ysm of rage and fear ; and their cries — exaggerated, as 
noises always are to one asleep — had absolutely terrified me. 
My heart fluttered as much as the birds themselves ; and it 
was some time before I could so far calm my excited nerves 
as to be able to approach the window to see what could be 
the cause of such a commotion in this hitherto peaceful little 
family. The cause was soon explained. Twisted around 
the branch of the tree on which the nest was built, was a 
bright green serpent — longer, but not much larger than my 
pen-holder. In the morning there had been four little eggs 
in the nest ; but this greedy thing had already devoured 
three of them, and without taking his glittering eyes off of 
me, proceeded to gorge the last one. What could I do ? My 
two little friends seemed to expect some assistance from 
me ; but I was fascinated by those glittering eyes, and per- 
fectly powerless to do any thing. While I stood looking at 
him, he finished his meal, and loosening his folds from the 
limb of the tree, glided noiselessly to the ground, and out of 
sight in a bed of violets. Horrid monster ! to make his lair 
among the sweet violets. 

I suppose the birds will leave me now : they will hardly 
be so foolish as to build a second time in the place where 
they have met with such a bereavement. I shall miss 
them ; and I have been looking forward with so much pleas- 
ure to seeing them rear their little brood. Ah me ! what 
hopeless misery and desolation a day — yes, an hour — may 
bring forth ! There are my poor little birdies, who ate the 
breakfast I had spread for them with joyous chirps this 
morning ; all their loving hopes have been shattered in a 
moment. And I — ah ! I am almost as much distressed as 
they are, I’m sure. 

June 2/^th . — I was chattering away with the old gardener 
this morning while gathering my roses, and in my usual 
way, regardless of the gender of my nouns or the tenses of 
my verbs, when I was startled by the sound of a suppressed 


EX TJ^ ACTS FROM CLARISSA'S DIARY. 


281 


laugh. I looked up in a half-frightened way, and there 
within a few feet of me stood a man. He was tall, well 
dressed, and what some people might call handsome, though 
he was not young — he was somewhere about forty years old, 
I should say. There was something about his face that I 
did not like — something that sent a chill through me ; and I 
was glad my old friend was near, and made a quiet gesture 
for him to remain. 

The stranger’s hair was very black, and he wore a black 
mustache, through which his white teeth shone when he 
smiled, as he was doing when I looked up at him ; but his 
smile reminded me very much of the snarl of a dog. But 
his eyes were what I disliked the most about him — his cold, 
glittering, dishonest eyes. I see them now, and it seems to 
me that I have seen them before — yes, before I ever saw 
him. Ah ! I see ! I see ! — the serpent ! — the serpent that de- 
stroyed the peace of my little feathered family. 

The man — I cannot call him gentleman — for to me he did 
not appear to be such, though he was well clothed and had 
a certain assumed air of the gentleman, or would-be gentle- 
man, about him. His clothes, though cut in the height of 
fashion, and made to fit him physically, did not fit him in 
another sense — may I say a moral sense ? or shall I say he 
did not fit them ? Perhaps that is better. As to his man- 
ner, it was plainly an imitation of the manners of those with 
whom he could claim no affinity. As I was going to say, this 
man, after introducing himself as Mr. Yorke, and presum- 
ing that I was Miss Wetherby, excused himself for having 
intruded on me so unceremoniously, saying that he was an 
old acquaintance of my father’s, and came from a long dis- 
tance to see him. He concluded by asking if he was at 
home, and appeared greatly pleased to hear that he was, ap- 
parently having some cause to fear that he should not find 
him there. 

As I led him to the house, he made some efforts to engage 
me in conversation ; but I had taken such a prejudice 
against him that I did not like even to talk to him, and thus 
far we have scarcely exchanged a dozen words. My dear 
papa did not seem at all glad to see him ; and during the 
progress of our very silent dinner, appeared more than usually 
depressed. 

/u 7 te 25M. — Mr. Yorke stayed all night, and it seems his 
visit is to be prolonged for several days. I presume he in- 
vited himself, for I feel pretty sure papa did not invite him. 
I have discovered that he is Mrs. Gwyn’s brother — a not 
much beloved one, I judge, from the effect his presence has 


282 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


had upon her spirits. He is evidently a b^te noire to the 
whole household. He must be aware that he is an unwel- 
come guest — he can’t help but see it — but he does not seem 
to mind it at all ; just goes about with as much easy nofi- 
chala7ice as though the place belonged to him. 

This afternoon I thought he had gone to Lausanne — he 
said at dinner that he should do so — and so I went out for 
a stroll, feeling secure of not meeting him. I went to “ The 
Picture,” and having a book with me, sat down to read. I 
had not been there long when I heard some persons ap- 
proaching, talking earnestly together. They were Mrs. 
Gwyn and her brother ; and when they had nearly reached 
the place of my retreat, they stopped, and I suppose sat 
down on a marble seat which is there, continuing their con- 
versation, which 1 could not help but overhear as long as I 
remained where I. was. I don’t know that I was doing right 
to listen — perhaps I was not — but I wanted to know some- 
thing about this Yorke, who I already perceived possessed 
some sinister influence over my father ; and so I became an 
eavesdropper for the first time in my life. 

” So you are determined to stay where you are unwel- 
come ?” said Mrs. Gwyn. 

” Yes,” replied the other, with a low, ugly laugh. ” I 
know I am unwelcome — to you as well as to him, and to 
that pretty bird he has caged here ; but — ” 

” Don’t mention her !” cried the sister angrily. If you 
were to attempt to injure a hair of her head, I would make 
you rue it, as sure as there is a God in heaven.” 

” Oh !” said Yorke, with the same ugly laugh ; and that 
was all the notice he took of her threat. He then went on 
with what he had been going to say. ” But what care I 
whether I am unwelcome or not ? I am pretty well sea- 
soned, as you ought to know by this time ; and welcome or 
unwelcome, I intend to stay here until I have brought 
Wetherby to his senses, and made some definite arrangement 
with him for the future. He knows very well he will have 
to do as I say in the end — all his shilly-shallying will be of 
no avail, and you may tell him so. ’ ’ 

” I’ll do nothing of the kind,” was the reply. ” I know 
nothing about your affairs ; and I’m only surprised that 
Mr. Wetherby should allow you to come here to bully him 
in his own house, as I know you have been doing. If I 
were he, I would hand you over to the p>olice. ’ ’ 

” But you see you are not he, my good sister ; and he is 
wiser than you, for he knows there are some games that 


EXTRA CTS FROM CLARISSA ’ 5 E/AR V. 2 83 


two can play at when they are begun. But I tell you the 
truth, Maggie.” 

; ” The truth ! Did you ever tell the truth in your life ? 

I But let me hear this thing you call the truth.” 

There was a little pause, and then the man said, ” I know 
I you’ll not believe me, but I’m speaking the truth neverthe- 
less. Wetherby owes me money, and I only want him to 
pay me, for I’m devilish hard pushed.” 

” And how much, pray, does Mr. Wetherby owe one such 
!; as you, that he cannot settle the debt at once, and be rid of 
' you ?” asked Mrs. Gwyn in a sarcastic tone. 

” Oh ! nothing much — at least it is not much to him,” said 
i Yorke : ” there’s a little matter of twenty-five thousand dol- 
I lars or so between us ; that’s all.” 

” Con Ragan !” exclaimed his sister indignantly ; and 
when I heard the name I almost screamed. ” Con Ragan ! 
how can you utter such a lie as that ? Can’t you speak the 
truth for once ?” 

‘ ' I told you that I was speaking the truth, ’ ’ replied the 
other. ” What do you know about my dealings with Weth- 
erby ?” 

” I know nothing ; but you certainly can’texpect me to 
believe that he owes you that much money, if he owes you 
any at all.” 

Ragan laughed — I shall never be able to think of him by 
any other name now — and then he said, ” You may believe 
me or no, just as you please ; but you will see that I shall 
get the money before I am done.” 

” That Mr. Wetherby owes you such a sum I’ll not be- 
lieve if you swear to it,” said Mrs. Gwyn ; ” but that you 
are trying to get money out of him by some means or other, 
I haven’t the least doubt. What means you are using, I 
can’t tell ; but that you will hesitate at nothing where you 
have your own selfish purposes in view, I know to my cost.” 

What have I ever cost you, pray ?’ ’ asked the brother. 
” Nothing save the little food and clothing you gave me 
before I was able to earn them for myself. When I was 
sixteen I struck out for myself, and I have never cost you a 
dime since.” 

” Ah, yes !” said the other, with a sigh, ” you struck out 
for yourself ; but, my God ! in what a course ! You esti- 
mate every thing by its value in dimes and dollars ; but I 
might tell you how much you have cost me in heart-aches 
and misery. You wouldn’t understand that, though. O 
Con ! Con !” she cried in great anguish, and weeping while 
she spoke, ” many and many’s the time when you have 


284 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


been sick that I have nursed you, and cried over you, and 
prayed the Holy Virgin that you might be spared ; and 
many and many’s the time since that I have wished she 
had turned a deaf ear to me, and that you had died rather 
than lived to be what you became afterwards.” 

” Well, you see the Holy Virgin was more amiable than 
my affectionate sister, ’ ' he said, laughing, at the same time 
rising from his seat. 

” Don’t speak of the Holy Mother of God irreverently, 
sir,’' said Mrs. Gwyn indignantly. 

” Well, I won’t if you don’t like it ; but I’m much obliged 
to her all the same — if she had any thing to do with preserv- 
ing my precious life. I think now I’ll go down to Lau- 
sanne. Au revoir. By the bye,” he added, turning to her 
after he had walked a little way, ” did you ever see or hear 
of those two brats you had under your charge some fifteen 
or twenty years ago ?” 

“Yes,” she replied, in an indifferent tone, ” I have seen 
them.” 

‘‘You have !” exclaimed her brother, as if he had not 
expected such a reply to his question. ‘‘ Where and 
when ?’ ’ 

” That is what I don’t intend to tell you, you may be cer- 
tain.” 

‘‘ Oh, well !” he said, laughing, ‘‘ I don’t care. Keep the 
secret to yourself if it’s so precious : I have no particular 
interest in them now, anyhow. I suppose there was a very 
affectionate meeting between you.” 

‘‘ There was nothing of the kind,” she replied, with a 
sigh. ‘‘ I knew them ; but they didn’t know me — how 
should they They were little more than babies when I 
was obliged to part with them to save them from you. My 
heart yearned towards them, and had I dared, I would have 
clasped them in my arms as I used to do when they were 
sweet babes.” 

‘‘ And why didn’t you do it?” he asked, with his ugly 
laugh full of mockery now. 

‘‘ Ah ! why didn’t I ? You may well ask. Even had they 
remembered me, what explanation could I have given them ? 
Could I have told them what is most important for them to 
know? Ask yourself . ” 

‘‘ Ha, ha ! I don’t suppose you could. You could hardly 
tell them what you didn’t know yourself : that’s a secret of 
mine ; and as I couldn’t reap profit from it when something 
might have been got for the telling of it, I intend to keep it 
to myself now. By, by, Maggie ; if you want to get rid of 


EXTRACJ'S FROM CLARISSA* S DIARY, 285 

me soon, you had better persuade Wetherby to pay me what 
he owes me. By, by.*’ 

With these last words, Ragan walked off whistling, while 
his sister remained sobbing and moaning softly to herself. 
The impulse was strong upon me to go and comfort her, and 
ask an explanation of what I had overheard ; but I was 
ashamed for her to know that I had been listening, and I 
did not know but that the fact of my having heard what I 
did might distress her still more, so I remained where I was 
until she had recovered her composure and gone away. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA’s DIARY. 

July ist . — He is gene — Yorke — Ragan, I mean. He is 
gone, and I feel a certain sense of relief since his departure, 
though he has left me tossed on a sea of doubts and suspi- 
cions. I feel as though I were entangled in a web of myste- 
rious circumstances which may some day be unravelled, and 
disclose something dreadful. 

The day I overheard the conversation between him and 
his sister he brought me a letter from Sylvia. Dear Sylvia, 
how I love her, and how I wish she were with me now ! I 
read her letter to papa — poor papa ! he seems so much 
more sad since that man came here. He said she was a 
sweet, noble girl, and that she wrote a beautiful letter. Ah, 
how I would like to go to Italy ! 

July ^th . — I have persuaded papa to take me to Italy, 
and I have written to Sylvia to tell her about it. He prom- 
ises to leave here in September — oh, how far off September 
seems to me ! — and after spending a month or two in North- 
ern Italy, to go to Rome. In the mean time he says he will 
try to make my life a little more pleasant. We are to make 
a few excursions in the neighborhood of Lausanne, where 
he says there is much to interest one ; and then we are to go 
to Geneva by the land route, and return on a steamboat. 
Oh, how delightful it will be ! 

August 10th . — We have been to Geneva, and such a pleas- 
ant time as we had. I have never seen so much beautiful 
scenery before. We went in a carriage, travelling along the 
lake shore all the way, and every turn in the road revealed 
some new and exquisite picture. I don’t wonder the poets 
are so rapturous about Lake Leman. And Geneva. What 


286 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


a pretty and delightful town it is ! We stayed there nearly 
two weeks. Papa showed me the house where Calvin lived, 
and took me to Ferney, where Voltaire lived ; and told me 
all about them and a great deal more ! Oh, he seems to know 
so much — my poor papa — and yet he is unhappy. We came 
back home on a steamboat, and I believe that was pleasant- 
est of all. 

There was a young French girl about my own age on the 
boat. She was very pretty, and seemed to be unhappy. As 
she sat near me on the deck, I ventured to speak to her, 
though I feared she would scarcely understand me. She 
did understand, however, and her face brightened when I 
spoke to her. We soon got to comprehend each other — I 
believe girls would do that even though they had no lan- 
guage in common — and before we got to our journey's end, 
she confided the one little romance of her life to me, casting 
furtive glances, whilst she was relating the oft-told tale, at 
son pere et sa mere., a nice-looking old couple who were 
promenading the deck. 

It was the same story that we read of ever in French 
novels. The chateau of Alphonse' s pere is situated but a short 
distance from that of Julie' s pere. Inevitably Alphonse 
meets Julie., and falls in love with her. But Alphonse s pere 
has been improvident — or unfortunate, and his estate is 
mortgaged ; so, of course, Alphonse is not an eligible paf'tie. 
Julie reciprocates the love of Alphonse, and is consequently 
hurried back to her convent school, to dream of love instead 
of lessons, while prudent p^re et 7nere concoct a scheme to 
wed her to an antique baron who has plenty of money. 

Her father and mother had gone to the convent for her 
when her education was considered complete ; but instead 
of taking her to that home around which Alphonse was lurk- 
ing, embracing every mossy bank on which he fancied she 
might have sat, and kissing every pebble that her feet might 
have touched, had started on the grand tour., hoping, by 
showing her the world and all the pretty things in it, to 
efface the image of her undesirable lover from her mind. 
She assured me, however, that that would be impossible, for, 
come what might, she could never, never forget Alphonse, 
nor cease to love him. 

She uttered no complaint against the pere et mere ; and in- 
deed they appeared to be a very amiable pair, and probably 
had no other object in view than the securing, according to 
their ideas, their daughter’s future happiness. They treated 
her with the most delicate affection, and were evidently 
filled with sorrow at her sad condition ; but they were, 


EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA* S DIARY. 


287 


nevertheless, inexorable on the one point — at least, I- judge 
so — and I have no doubt but that a few months will see 
Julie the young wife of the antique baron. Poor Julie ! 

I don’t intend to write a novelette with Julie De Blanc 
for the heroine, however. Her story is interesting, I know ; 
but it is old — old. I thrfik I must have read it at least a 
dozen of times. She told me something that interested me 
still more than her own little romance. She gave me some 
information about Miss Weston, the young lady Sylvia is so 
anxious to find. I had searched the hotel registers for her 
name in vain, wherever papa had taken me, and had given 
up all hope of being of any assistance to my friend, when 
Julie told me where she had been at any rate, and that is 
something to know. This is the way she happened to men- 
tion her, and it seems like such a wonderful coincidence. 

When she had confided her sorrows to me, and I had sym- 
pathized with her, as she evidently expected me to do, she 
took my hand and pressed it affectionately between her 
own. “ Ah, mademoiselle r ' she said, “ you are so kind, so 
good ; you feel for me and my poor Alphonse. You are 
like ma chere Elenor. She too was good and kind, and lis- 
tened patiently to my little troubles without saying ‘ Bah ! * 
She is not French, and did not think it right that I should 
be made to give up mon beau gar^oji because he was poor, to 
marry a rich old cochoii.'' 

“ Elenor !” I said, catching my breath ; “ she is not 
French, you say ; what is she, then — German, Italian, Eng- 
lish?” 

“ German ! Oh no,” she replied, with a look of disgust, 

nor Italian, nor English ; she is une belle Americaine. 
Ah, so beautiful, and so good is Elenor Veston ! Do you 
know her ?” 

” I have heard of her, and I know friends of hers who 
will rejoice to discover where she is.” 

‘ Ah, mon Dieu ! I am sorry, but I do not know where 
she is now.” 

‘ ‘ Where did you meet her ?’ ’ 

” She was a boarder in the convent where I went to 
school ; but she is there no longer, and I don’t know where 
she went to. Slie promised to write to sister Agathe — they 
were great friends — but she had not done so when I left 
school. But I will tell you all I know about her.” 

” Do,” I said ; ” I would like to communicate what you 
tell me to those I spoke of, and perhaps it may lead to the 
discovery of her present place of abode. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I shall be glad if what I can tell you will be of any ser- 


\ 


288 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


vice, mademoiselle said Julie ; ‘‘ but you must know that 
nearly all I can tell I heard from Sister Agathe. MademoE 
selle Veston never made a confidante of me, though I did of 
her ; and she was very kind, and talked to me so sweetly, 
that she almost made me reconciled to my miserable lot. 
She is older than I, you see, and it was not to be expected 
that she would confide in me, whom she probably regarded 
as little more than a child.” 

“Yes,” I said, as she stopped speaking, and seemed to 
expect me to say something. 

“ She came to the convent — which is on the Saone, not 
far from Chalons — with her mother,” she continued, “ and 
made arrangements with the mother-superior to remain as a 
boarder. The mother, before leaving, had a long confer- 
ence with Mother Celeste, and told her, as I afterwards 
learned from Sister Agathe, that her daughter was a wilful 
girl, and could not be considered exactly in her right mind. 
She had taken what madame called an unreasonable and 
unaccountable antipathy to her step-father, and refused to 
travel or live with him ; and so she, the mother, had been 
obliged, for the sake of peace, she said, to consent to a tem- 
porary separation. She prevailed upon Mother Celeste to 
inclose all letters written by the young lady to herself, say- 
ing she was in the habit of writing all manner of things to 
people with whom she was entirely unacquainted — this being 
one of the peculiar turns her fancy had taken — and her cor- 
respondence consequently required the supervision of one 
who knew all about her. Of course Mother Celeste thought 
her duty required her to obey the mother’s injunctions — 
daughters’ feelings and daughters’ wishes are never consid- 
ered in France, mademoiselle — and’ the poor young lady 
wrote and wrote letters to which she never received any an- 
swers, and so grew sadder and sadder day by day. I did 
not know this till after she was gone, or, you may be sure, I 
would have told her. Sister Agathe didn’t know it, either, 
and she told me she was glad of it, for the temptation to tell 
would have been very strong, and she might not have been 
able to resist it ; and then she would have committed a great 
sin, you know, mademoiselle.” 

“ How long did Miss Weston remain at the convent ?” I 
asked. 

“ She came early in the spring, and left about a month 
ago. She told Sister Agathe that she should return to 
America when she left the convent. She had written to her 
guardian, who lives in that country, to send her money to 
pay her expenses, and was very much troubled at not receiv- 


EXTjRACTS FEOM CLARISSA^ S DIARY. 289 

ing any answer to her letter. She also wrote letters to 
somebody else from whom she received no reply, and was 
very unhappy, poor thing ! She did not say who that other 
was, and I thought it must have been her Alphonse, and Sis- 
ter Agathe thought so too. She did not know that none of 
her letters ever reached those for whom they were intended. 
Ah, mademoiselle ! it seems hard that we should be treated so 
cruelly by our mothers.” 

Alas ! I have no mother. I wonder, if I had, if I should 
ever feel rebellious when her judgment came in collision 
with my desires. I feel now as though it would be impossi- 
ble. O mother, mother ! what have I not lost in losing 
you ? What is a poor, weak girl in this world without a 
mother ? 

I have had a good hearty cry. I have often thought of 
my mother, and longed for that love which I have never 
known ; but I have never been so overcome before. O ye 
who have mothers ! cherish them as the dearest jewels of the 
heart, and do not wait until you have lost them to prize 
them. One consolation I have : I never gave my mother 
one moment’s pain. She died before I was old enough to 
know right from wrong, it is true ; but I do not believe— had 
it pleased God that she should live — that I would have been 
other than a dutiful and loving child. But I must return to 
my conversation with Julie. 

” The step-father came for her one day,” she said, in an- 
swer to a question of mine. ” Oh, but he is a horrid man I 
another cochon !” she exclaimed, ” and I do not wonder 
that she dislikes him — I should hate him. He told her that 
her mother was very ill, and desired to see her, and he gave 
her a letter, after reading which, she packed up her things 
and went away with him. As I have already told you, she 
promised to write to Sister Agathe ; but she had not done 
so up to the time I was taken away from the convent, and 
Sister Agathe thought it probable she had not been permit- 
ted to do so.” 

I had listened with intense interest to all that Julie told 
me ; and knowing the story of Elenor Weston’s love, I was 
able to explain the mystery of her conduct, as well as the 
manoeuvres of her mother, to the sympathetic young French 

girl. 

” Ah !” she cried, ” I see how it is. They wish her to 
give up her handsome artist because he is poor, and then 
they will provide her with an ugly old husband who has 
plenty of money,” — drawing a parallel between Miss Wes- 


290 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


ton’s case and her own at once. ‘‘ Oh ! I hope they’ll not 
succeed ; for she is too lovely to be sacrificed in that way.” 

She parted from me with many protestations of unaltera- 
ble love, and promised to write to me if ever she heard any 
thing further about that c/iere Elenor, or whenever pere et 
mere should relent, and permit her to marry ce pauvre 
Alphonse. If she awaits the latter alternative, I fear I shall 
never receive the promised letter. 

But now I must write all this to Sylvia. I have had only 
one letter from her, and I suppose it is difficult to find time 
to write during the first month or two that one is in a city 
like Rome. 


CHAPTER IX. 

LETTER FROM SYLVIA. 

“ Rome, July — , 18 — . 

** Clarissima MIA : Nearly a month has passed since I 
wrote to you, and I expect you think I am but an indiffer- 
ent correspondent ; though I assure you, dear, it is not the 
want of inclination that has prevented my writing, but the 
want of opportunity. There is so much to see and do 
here, and it is all so new to Ollie and I— like the fulfilment 
of a wild and beautiful dream — that we have scarcely given 
ourselves time to sleep and eat as becomes decent, orderly 
people. We got here so late in the season — just when 
everybody who could get away was going north — and we 
knew that we would have to seek a refuge from the malarial 
fevers of Rome so soon ourselves, that we have tried to con- 
centrate all the sight-seeing we possibly could in the few 
weeks we had before us. 

” We have made very few acquaintances as yet — those 
artists to whom our friend Mr. Alford gave us letters. They 
are beginning to migrate to the mountains, and we have 
been advised to follow their example ; but Ollie is very 
loath to leave the city. However, I suppose we will have 
to go soon, and when you hear from me again, we will prob- 
ably be sojourners in some village among the mountains 
which rise blue in the distance beyond the confines of La 
Campagna. 

” Since I wrote to you we have moved into apartments 
on the Piazza di Spagna — hotel living was too expensive — 
and our poor friend Elsie seems to have become a little 


LETTER FROM SYLVIA. 


291 


more reconciled to her situation. Wonderful to relate, she 
has picked up a few words of the ‘ lingo,’ as she calls it, 
and uses them on all occasions without any reference to 
their significance, much to the amusement of the natives 
with whom we have dealings. Some of her words are ex- 
pressive of thanks, while others are quite the contrary ; and 
she sometimes creates a scene by the generous way in which 
she bestows them on all comers. I tried to give her some 
instruction as to the meanings of certain Italian words that 
she is particularly partial to ; but my labor was entirely 
thrown away. ‘ La,’ she said, ‘ Miss Sylvy ! how on yearth 
is I to ric’lec’ all that ? Jist let me talk to these here Ital- 
ians in my own way, an’ I’ll git along ; they onderstan’s me 
now, but ef I goes to try an’ talk lamin’ like you and Mister 
Ollie, I jest knows I'll make a mess on it.* So I let her 
alone, and she seems to ‘ git along, ’ as she said she would. 
The people know she came from America, and some of them 
think she is one of the aborigines, notwithstanding her 
freckled face and straw-colored hair. 

“ I enjoyed your letter very much, dear ; but I am sorry to 
hear that you have been so lonely since we left you. I 
hope you will find your trip to Geneva a pleasant change 
from the quietude and monotony of your present existence, 
and I look forward with delight to the prospect of meeting 
you in Rome next autumn. I feel quite sure that you will 
enjoy your visit here after your life of seclusion at Lausanne. 

Castello Gondolfo, August — , 18 — . 

‘’You see I did not finish my letter in Rome, and a 
week has elapsed since I laid down my pen. I thought 
when I sat down to write that I would have the whole 
day to myself, and determined to devote it to you ; but 
I had hardly begun my chat with you when Oliver, in a 
great state of excitement, came rushing in, and told me I 
must pack up and be ready to start for Albano in an hour : 
the cholera had made its appearance in the city, and every 
one who could possibly do so was hurrying away. He had 
succeeded in securing a vettura j but the driver was unwill- 
ing to delay starting for more than an hour, for he was anx- 
ious to make the trip as quick as possible, so as to get back 
to the city and make still further profit out of the panic. 
So here we are. 

“ We tried Albano first, but every place there was 
crowded, and we came here, where we were told we could 
get very comfortable lodgings. 

“You must not imagine that we are living in a veritable 


292 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


castle. The Castle Gondolfo, from which the village in 
which we dwell in humble obscurity takes its name, is a 
favorite summer residence of the Pope, and occupies an emi- 
nence above us, awing us with its grandeur whilst it pro- 
tects us ’neath the shadow of its battlements. The castle 
garden, which commands a view of all the surrounding 
country, is a pleasant place of resort ; and there we gen- 
erally spend our afternoons, enjoying the breeze from the 
mountains, and the splendid panorama of the Campagna, 
which lies spread out before us. 

“ I know nothing more calculated to awaken lofty senti- 
ments in the mind of the beholder than the Campagna of 
Rome as seen from this spot at sunset. You know, of 
course, that the Campagna is a vast plain, in the midst of 
which the ‘ Eternal City * stands. From this distance the 
great dome of St. Peter’s is the only building visible, and 
that looks like an ‘ airy fairy ’ fabric, that may dissolve and 
disappear while you gaze at it. The little streams, which 
rush down from their mountain homes, and wander hither 
and thither in search of their great chief — the Tiber — that 
will lead them on to the sea, appear like threads of gold, 
broken here and there by some elevation in the plain other- 
wise invisible to the eye ; and as the sun goes down the 
vapors — that deadly miasma from which we flee — arise like 
translucent veils, overhanging the landscape, producing the 
most beautiful and wonderful effects. 

“ I do not wonder that poets and painters go into such 
raptures over the sunsets of Italy. No description, either 
in prose or verse — not even the pictures of Claude, the sun- 
light painter, can convey to the mind the enchanting beauty 
of that magic hour in this lovely land. Oh ! I wish that I 
could give you some idea of the sensations that fill my soul 
as I sit here, high up on the slope of Mount Albano, and 
gaze upon the scene beneath me. It would be a fruitless 
task, my friend, and I will not attempt it, hoping that the 
time is not far distant when you will enjoy all this through 
the medium of your own senses, and feel the same supreme 
and tranquil happiness that now fills my heart to overflow- 
ing. Here, and here alone, one feels the true significance 
and appreciates the full idea of happiness conveyed in the 
‘ dolce far 7iiente ' of the Italians. Even I, on whose hands 
idle hours hung heavily enough once, can now sit, with my 
hands before me, and dream life away as contentedly as the 
veriest lazzarone of them all. 

“ The day before yesterday there was a festa — that is, a 
festival — at Rocca di Papa,, a little village perched high up 


LETTER FROM SYLVIA, 


293 


on Mount Albano. Ollie and I went, mounted on donkeys 
— patient little animals that would carry you to the moon, I 
think, if they could find foothold — and we enjoyed our trip. 

! It was a day of grand jollification to the peasantry, and they 
I were all abroad in their holiday costumes. A gayer or more 
I enchanting scene I never beheld. A friend of ours who is 
I an enthusiast about Italy and the Italians, knows all about 
[ the costumes of the different localities, and took pains to 
point them out to me. Every little village has its own 
peculiar costume, and as there were people from every place 
within a radius of fifteen or twenty miles, all decked in their 
whitest linen and most brilliant bodices and short skirts, 
with gaudy ribbons fluttering everywhere in the mountain 
breeze, you may imagine the brightness and beauty of the 
scene. 

“ But to have a complete idea of the picture you must let 
your fancy convey you to the village itself, a little cluster of 
houses built on the solid rock — without any regard to regu- 
larity — overlooking the Campagna and Lake Albano, a beau- 
i tiful sheet of water — bluer than the sky — which lies deep 
I down in a volcanic basin — so deep that the wind seldom 
ruffles its surface, and then only by making an eagle-like 
swoop, just kissing its placid face, over which it hovers for 
an instant, hastening away up the opposite steep, as if it 
feared to be caught in this narrow space, and imprisoned 
there forever with the still blue waters. 

“ On the opposite side of the lake is Castle Gondolfo, 

I with the village straggling away below it down the slope of 
the mountain, and the Barbarini Villa, close to which stands 
a monastery, whose white walls glimmer through the trees, 
and the chimes of whose bells can be faintly heard from this 
eyrie. Over and beyond these the Campagna stretches far, 
far away until the faint glint of the Mediterranean separates 
it from the sky. 

“ As I have already confided to you the story of Elenor 
Weston, I must tell you before I close this, that we have at 
last received some information with regard to her, though 
f not of such a character as will be of much service, I am 
sorry to say. I was introduced the day of the festa at Rocca 
di Papa to an Endish gentleman, who, I soon discovered, was 
a great traveller — one of those restless beings who are never 
content to remain in one place long. He seems to have 
spent the greater portion of his life in shifting about from 
one place to another in Europe, and has even been to Asia 
and Africa. When I found he was such an incessant gad- 
about I ventured to ask him if he had ever met Miss Weston 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


294 

— not that I supposed he could have done so in either of the ^ 
last-mentioned continents, of course. 1 

“ ‘ Miss Elenor Weston, do you mean ? ’ he asked. ' 

“ ‘ The same,* I replied. ‘ I am very anxious to find out 1 
where she is. * | 

‘‘ ‘ Let me see,* he said, thoughtfully rubbing his right J 
eyebrow with his index finger. * I did meet her not very j 
long ago ; but where was it ? I meet so many people, in so ] 
many different places, that I get the names of people and j 
places very much mixed up sometimes. Ah ! yes, yes — | 
certainly — I remember now — it was at Dijon, and she was : 
accompanied by a man whom I used to see about Rome, ^ 
and whom she introduced to me as her step-father — though i 
I thought she rather hesitated at calling him so. She told 
me she had not seen her mother for some time ; she had 
been living in the South of France — on account of her 
health, I suppose — for she looked ill then. Mrs. Weston 
had been taken very ill herself, it seemed, and had sent the 
husband post-haste to fetch her daughter. I’ve forgotten 
the fellow’s — beg pardon — the gentleman’s name : it is some 
kind of flower, but what I can’t for the life of me think — 
unless it be Johnquill.* 

“ ‘ No, no,* said I, laughing, ‘ Tulip — Mr. Tulip.* 

“ ‘ So it is,* he said ; ‘ you are right — his name is Tulip, 
and perhaps they were going to Holland, for that is the 
land of Tulips.* 

“ ' But don’t you really know where they were going ? * I 
asked anxiously. 

“ ‘ No, I do not,’ he replied more seriously, ‘ and I’m 
sorry I don’t, if the knowledge would be of any service to 
you. I asked Miss Weston, too ; but she didn’t seem to 
know herself, and turned to Mr. Tulip for the desired infor- 
mation. He muttered something in reply, which neither of 
us understood — further than that they were going northward 
— and hurried off to look after his luggage. I saw no more 
of him after that, as my own train — southward bound — was 
on the eve of starting.* 

“ Need I tell you how greatly disappointed I was ? You 
know how much interested I am in this romantic affair, and 
can easily understand. 

“ I have no idea when we will return to Rome, but I am 
very sure we shall be comfortably settled there long before 
you get this far south, so you may tell your father that any 
thing Ollie can do towards engaging apartments for you ; he 
will be glad to do. 

“ You must write to me as soon as you return from your 


EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA'S DIARY. 


295 


Geneva trip, and give me an account of your travels, and 
whatever happens, always keep a warm corner in your heart 
for your loving Sylvia/' 


CHAPTER X. 

EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA’S DIARY, 

August i^th . — I found when I returned home that my two 
little birds — I suppose they are the same — had built another 
nest close to the one that was so ruthlessly rifled. Foolish 
little things, not to learn wisdom by experience ! But after 
all, are they more foolish than we poor mortals ? Do we 
learn wisdom from experience ? I remember when at 
school that I have been often punished for the self-same 
fault, and what amount of experience will make us avoid 
that which we know is not good for us ? I am afraid the 
little birds are as wise as their betters. 

They already have four ugly little brats in their nest, and 
they stretch their mouths from morning till night, asking 
for “ more,” like poor little Oliver Twist. I did not know 
that young birds could possibly be so hideous ; but I sup- 
pose the old ones are like all other parents, and think them 
beautiful. However, ugly as they are, I have constituted 
myself their protector. The gardener has furnished me 
with a long pole which stands in the corner of my room ; 
and if the enemy returns I will give him battle, though his 
eyes should glitter ten times more than they did. Why 
should I be afraid of a pair of glittering eyes ? 

Speaking of glittering eyes, my father informed Mrs. 
Gwyn yesterday that her brother would be here in a few 
days. I was sorry to hear it, and I don’t think she took 
any more delight in the information than I did. As to papa, 
he spoke indifferently about it, as if it were a matter of no 
particular interest to him. But I know better : I know that 
that man has had something to do with the sad lines which 
mark his care-worn face, and that he would be glad if he 
had a ssurance that he would never see him again. Oh, 
what would I not give to fathom this mystery ! Not that I 
wish to pry into my father’s affairs ; but I think — poor, 
weak girl as I am — I might find some way to help him. 

I cannot believe my father to be a bad man, though he 
may have done something that he ought not to have done — 
who has not ? — tempted to it, possibly, by this man. I may 


296 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


be very wicked, but I hate this Yorke, as he calls himself. 
The Bible says that we must not hate our brother ; but can 
such as he be considered our brother, even in the broad 
sense in*which we are taught to understand the Scriptures ? 
We are not told that we must not hate the devil, and are 
not evil-minded, conscienceless men devils ? 

August 16th. — I have just received a letter from Sylvia. 
What a dear, sweet thing she is ! Indeed, I will keep a 
warm corner in my heart for her ! She will be surprised, 
when she gets my letter, that I had also heard something of 
Elenor Weston. How strange that we should both have 
received information with regard to her almost at the same 
time. The English gentleman must have met her immedi- 
ately after she left the convent. Ah, how delightful this lit- 
tle romance is getting ! If we can only discover where she 
has been taken to, and the cause of all these mysterious 
movements, and then succeed in getting her married to her 
true lover, how nice it will be ! My dairy will be like a 
novel. I wonder if anybody ever wrote a diary with a true- 
love story in it before. 

But what will we discover next ? Perhaps that she has 
been forced to marry some rich old man ; or, rather than do 
that, that she has taken the veil and become a nun. Oh ! 
but that would be too bad : she would never do either — I 
know I wouldn’t. 

August 20th. — Mr. Yorke came to-day. I didn’t know he 
was here until I met him at the dinner table. He is just the 
same as ever. He has never paid any attention to me, be- 
yond making a few commonplace remarks, which he seems 
to intend for politeness or wit ; but they are neither the one 
nor the other : he is incapable of either. 

During the meal he had very little to say. Once he looked 
at Mrs. Gwyn with a very curious expression, and informed 
her that he should probably be married in the course of a 
few months. I never saw any one so taken aback as she 
was at this intelligence. She seemed to be fairly staggered, 
as though she had received a blow from his hand. She 
dropped her knife and fork with a clatter, gasped, and ap- 
peared about to speak, but looked at me and said not a word, 
which curious behavior evidently amused him mightily, for 
he laughed heartily, and asked if she had no kind wishes to 
offer him. I was so much taken up with watching the 
brother and sister that I did not notice my father until the 
first shock — as I may call it, considering the way it was re- 
ceived — had passed off, and when I did look at him he 


EXTRA CTS FROM CLARISSA ’ 6' E/AR V . 297 

seemed to be intently engaged with his dinner, which he had 
sadly neglected in the earlier courses. 

August 22d , — I have something to write to Sylvia — some- 
thing which I fear will shock as much as it will surprise 
her. I was standing at my chamber window this morning, 
watching the birds feed their greedy little ones, when I over- 
heard a fragment of conversation between my father and his 
guest. I feel a little ashamed of myself now for listening ; 
but the temptation was great, and I could not resist. I 
must hnd out all I can about this man, and I justify myself 
with the belief that any thing is fair with such as he. What 
I heard has made me more miserable than I already was. 

As I stated before, my father’s library window is just be- 
low that of my own room, and he and Ragan must have 
been close to it while they were talking, for I heard what 
they said very distinctly. Ragan’s voice was the first I 
heard, and his first words attracted my attention so irresisti- 
bly that I don’t think I would have been able to move out 
of hearing, even had I desired to do so. 

“ Elenor Weston,” he said; “that’s the young lady’s 
name. I don’t mind telling you — for I know you dare not 
interfere — and she’s the finest woman in Europe, and be- 
sides has some property to back her. ’ ’ 

Papa did not speak for some minutes, and then he said, 
“ How can you do this thing ? You know you have a wife 
living in America, and — ” 

“ I know no such thing !” interrupted Ragan hotly. 
“ How should I know it ? I have heard nothing from her 
for nearly two years, and of course she must be dead ; if she 
were not, I should certainly have heard from her in that time.” 

“ Didn’t you send all her letters back unopened, and for- 
bid her writing to you ? You told me that yourself ?” 

“ So I did. But I should have heard of her, if not from 
her* — I’ll stick to that. Where is the woman that would let 
a man rest in peace as long as she had life in her ? Of 
course she must be dead, and I’ll trouble myself no more 
about her — and you need not trouble me either — do you 
hear that ? I’ve made up my mind, I tell you.” 

“ Beware !” said my father, with warning solemnity in his 
voice. “ You have done many things, Ragan, the evil con- 
sequences of which you have had the good-fortune to 
escape ; but you are contemplating a crime now which you 
cannot fail to be detected in sooner or later.” 

“ Crime !” exclaimed the other angrily. “ Is it a crime, 
then, for a man to get married ?” 

“Yes, for a man who already has a wife living.” 


29 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


I tell you my wife is dead !” cried Ragan, waxing still 
more angry. “ Man alive, isn’t my word sufficient ? I am 
a widower, and have as good a right to marry as any other 
man, I take it. Now say no more about it : my mind is 
made up, and you can’t alter it.” 

“ Very well,” replied my father ; ” but I am really sorry 
that I cannot influence you in this matter — more on the 
young lady’s account than your own, as you probably 
know.” 

“Yes, I’m pretty sure of that,^’ said the other with a 
sneer. “ But let that pass — it’s little I care — and tell me 
when you can let me have the money ; that’s the all-impor- 
tant question to me just now. The old folks think I’m rich ; 
but I can’t keep up the illusion much longer unless my cash- 
box is replenished : so come, let me have the needful soon, 
and I promise never to trouble you again.” 

I cannot convey any idea of the man’s coarseness and 
brutality, for I cannot write the horrid words he used — and 
used very freely. He seemed to have laid aside his pre- 
tended gentility for the time : I suppose he thought it was 
unnecessary to trammel himself with it. 

“You will never trouble me again,” said my father. 
“ How many times have you promised that before, and what 
guarantee have I that you will keep your promise now any 
more than you have done heretofore ? Besides, it is a large 
sum you want, and not easily got hold of in a few days.” 

“Ah, bah !” scoffed Ragan ; “you know where to lay 
your hands on it — or even more — any day you like. I con- 
sider my demand quite a modest one, considering the rela- 
tion in which we stand to each other ; but as you seem loath 
to part with so much cash at one time. I’ll take it in instal- 
ments — say five now, and five every three months until it is 
all paid, and that will give you twelve months to get clear of 
me forever. What do you say ?” 

“ I’ll think over the matter,” was the reply, “ and to- 
morrow you shall have my answer.” 

“ Tre bien.^'' said Ragan, laughing lightly. revoir 

and he walked out of the room, slamming the door behind 
him. I thought I heard my father groan as he sat heavily 
down in a chair, and I stood listening to see if he would 
move again. Oh ! what would I not have given to go to 
him and comfort him ? But I dared not. In a few minutes 
I heard him stir, and then he got up and unlocked a drawer 
in his desk, and I retired from my position near the window 
to think over what I had heard. 

What was I to think ? Was it possible that Miss Weston 


EXTRACTS FROM CLARISSA^ S DIARY, 299 

was going to marry this man ? I could not believe it, after 
all that I had heard about her. This man of all others — 
this man whom most women would recoil from with instinc- 
tive repugnance. No ! it is a lie that he has concocted as 
an excuse for demanding money of my father. I must try 
and find out where she is. He knows, but he is not going 
to tell, of course. I must make a confidante of Mrs. Gwyn, 
and maybe she'll be able to assist me. 

August 23 ^/. — 1 have had a long confidential talk with 
Mrs. Gwyn. I told her all I knew about Miss Weston, and 
also repeated the conversation I had overheard between her 
brother and my father. 

“ My dear child," she said, when I had finished, " this is 
a miserable business ; but what can 1 do ? I have no influ- 
ence with him. As a child he was vicious and uncontrolla- 
ble, and as a man he has always been depraved and unprin- 
cipled. He is my brother, to be sure ; and it may seem 
strange for me to speak of him so ; but wickedness was born 
in him, and many a time I have prayed that he might die, 
sinful as it may seem. I see no hope of any change coming 
over him — at least for the better — and many might be saved 
from suffering, and perhaps sin, if his evil career were 
brought to an end." 

" But can you not find out where this young lady is liv- 
ing, Mrs. Gwyn?" I asked. "If you can, she might be 
warned." 

" You do not know him, my dear," she replied. " I can 
ask him ; but he will at once suspect my intentions and re- 
fuse to tell me : or, what is more probable, give me the 
name of some place that is very far from where she really is. 
He knows that I have not seen his wife for years — and she 
may be dead, for aught I know ; but as he cannot prove 
that she is, such information as I could give to the lady 
would be very troublesome to him, and might upset his 
plans altogether. But after all, I don't believe she is going 
to marry him. Con is a terrible liar, and he don't hesitate 
at a lie at any time, with or without an object. I dare say 
the mother and her husband are trying to bring the marriage 
about — fancying he is rich— and he has probably made them 
believe that they can manage hira and his affairs to suit 
themselves ; but they would soon fipd out their mistake. If 
the young lady is disinclined — and I flon't see how she can 
be otherwise — they can't force her to marry him, rest as- 
sured of that. I will see what information I can get out of 
him, however, though, as I told you, no reliance is to be 
placed in any thing he says. " 


300 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


“ Ah, do, dear Mrs. Gwyn !” I said. ‘‘ I would like so 
much to be able to tell her friends where she is — and he may 
tell you. And now, can you tell me what is the secret of 
your brother’s influence over papa ? I don’t like to appear 
to pry into papa’s affairs : but the conversation I overheard 
has made me very unhappy, for I could not help but feel 
that there was something wrong when he could let anybody 
talk to him as — ah — Mr. Yorke did.” 

” You must not let that trouble you, child,” said Mrs. 
Gwyn, looking at me sympathetically. ” Some men are 
naturally coarse and rude, though they manage to hide it 
when in the company of ladies or those on whom they wish 
to make a good impression ; but when there is no such re- 
straint upon them, they come out in their true characters. 
My brother Con is one of that kind.” 

August 24th. — To-day I went to Mrs. Gwyn’s room — I 
knew she had had a long talk with her brother early this 
morning — to ask if she had gained any information. 

“My dear,” she said, in reply to my question, “you 
know what I told you about Con — about my brother, I mean. ” 

She was going to say Con Ragan and just caught herself 
in time. She does not know that I am acquainted with his 
real name. 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“ He is a liar — a shameful liar,” she continued ; “ and 
like all liars, not to be trusted in any thing he says. When I 
questioned him about the lady he was going to marry he an- 
swered me without the slightest hesitation, and you would 
have thought it was the most natural thing in the world 
that I, his sister, should know all about his intended bride ; 
but the very look of frankness that he put on — so unusual to 
him — was sufficient to betray him had not his very first 
words done so. He told me her name was Miss Williams — 
that she was English, and lived in London. What do you 
think of that, after what you heard yourself ?’ ’ 

“ Ah me !“ I sighed, “ what shall I do ? I am so anx- 
ious to do something.^’ 

“You can do nothing, dear,” said Mrs. Gwyn ; “ and I 
don’t see that you need let it trouble you ; for I have no 
doubt but that the whole story is one of his lies.” 

August 2ph. — Yorke — or Ragan, as I cannot help calling 
him-^leaves us to-morrow. Oh, how glad I am ; but how I 
wish there was some one here who could follow him and find 
out where he goes to. But there is no one, and 1 expect 
papa is only too glad to be rid of him without troubling him- 
self about where he goes. 


SYLVIA. 


301 


I intended spending the day writing to Sylvia — I have so 
much to tell her — but papa told me after breakfast that we 
would start for Italy in a few days, and as I will have much 
to do in that case, I will have to put off writing to my sweet 
friend — for I have such a great deal to say to her. Oh, how 
delighted I am with the prospect of visiting Italy ! 

And now, adieu, for a time, my dear little book. I have 
spent some pleasant hours with you. You have done a 
great deal to cheer me in my loneliness here, and I have 
confided much to you that I would not tell to any living be- 
ing. I shall not forget you ; but I will open you sometimes 
in that fair land of the south, and tell you what I think of it. 


CHAPTER XI. 

SYLVIA. 

The season had begun at Rome — the artists’ season I 
mean — when the sons and daughters of genius, returning 
from their summer rambles laden with treasures, prepare for 
the winter campaign. What pleasant reunions there are 
among the brethren of the brush ; what amusing incidents 
are narrated ; what sketches of exquisite bits of scenery ex- 
hibited ! Every one is anxious to begin work. Two or 
three months of comparative idleness have sharpened their 
mental appetites, and each and every one feels that he will 
accomplish something worthy of consideration during the 
winter. The mountain breezes have invigorated their 
bodies, and the beauties of nature have refreshed their 
minds : the young feel like giants, and the old feel young 
again. 

Oliver Maxwell, like the rest, had returned to the city 
with his portfolio filled with sketches of landscape and pic- 
turesque peasants ; but his ambition was not to be satisfied 
with landscape or pictures of the ge7tre : it prepared itself 
for a higher leap — a leap skyward, if I may so put it. Hav- 
ing rented apartments to which a comfortable studio was at- 
tached, he set to work to study hard and fit himself to cope 
with the subject which he had already selected, and for 
which he had made several unsatisfactory designs. “ Pian, 
piano, si va lontano.,'' was an Italian proverb he had chosen 
for his motto ; and as he had no occasion to delve for bread, 
as many an unfortunate genius has from the very outset, he 
kept that in mind, and his one great object in view, and 


302 


AFTER A/A Ary YEARS. 


never swerved from the course he had chosen to pursue. 
He laid aside his palette, with its tempting array of colors, 
and confined himself to the use of chalks, black and white, 
and that act of abnegation, as every artist knows, was a sac- 
rifice worthy of praise — a sacrifice equal to that made by the 
bon vivant who gives up his rich wines and delicate viands to 
live on bread and water. “ Let me learn to walk,*' he said, 
“ and then I will run — I will fly !” 

But for the present we must leave Oliver to pursue with 
steady purpose the course he has chosen, keeping in view 
that “ phantom fame,'’ which he was determined to seize at 
some future day, but not until he felt strong and cunning 
enough to hold it. 

And what about Sylvia ? A great change has come over 
her within the last lew months. It is difficult to describe 
this change. She seems to have suddenly sprung into wo- 
manhood — and such a wondrous womanhood ! The little 
maidenly stateliness which had been peculiar to her in youth 
had grown into a sweet and graceful dignity. She was tall 
and well formed, and her face, every feature of which was 
of the finest type, was glorified by that noble, elevated look 
which emanates from a high order of intellect. What had 
produced this change ? That atmosphere of high art in 
which she now constantly moved and breathed had roused 
into active existence her spiritual being, and it had made it- 
self manifest in the outward form. Those who are capable 
of being elevated at all, cannot fail to feel that mysterious 
influence peculiar to all great art centres ; and even those 
who are incapable of any permanent elevation are affected as 
long as they are surrounded by it, though they neither ap- 
preciate it nor understand it. 

Sometimes Oliver would desert his studio and join his sis- 
ter in the sitting-room : her companionship was very sweet 
to him ; but of course, during his hours of actual study, he 
was obliged to be deprived of it. Such times were hours of 
recreation to him, and while she sat reading or working with 
her needle — she had undertaken some little charities which 
gave employment to her fingers as well as her sympathies — 
he would busy himself with his design, the one grand idea 
on which he intended to expend his energies, as soon as 
those energies were sufficiently fortified and strengthened by 
preliminary study. 

Oliver had not noticed particularly the change which had 
gradually grown upon his sister, though there were times 
when he had been startled by a certain — or shall I say an 
uncertain ? — something about her that was puzzling and in^ 


SYLVIA, 


303 


comprehensible — at least while it remained unanalyzed. 
One day, however, as he sat near the window drawing, he 
looked up to say something to her ; and his glance fell upon 
her, as, half reclining in a large arm-chair, she looked down 
upon the book that lay in her lap. It was one of those mo- 
. ments — those supreme moments, when we see into the inner 
life, the spiritual being, of those with whose outward, every- 
I day existence we have long been familiar. It suddenly 
flashed upon the young man that his sister was altogether a 
I different being to her he had known before. He looked at 
her so intently — wondering all the while that he had been so 
blind — that the magnetism of his gaze disturbed the current 
of her thoughts, and she raised her eyes. He was fairly 
startled by the wonderful depth and beauty of their expres- 
sion. 

“ Sylvia,'* he exclaimed in the first moment of his sur- 
j prise, hardly knowing what he said, “ what is this ?” 

“ What are you talking about, Ollie ?” asked Sylvia, get- 
I ting up and going to where he sat, to look at his drawing, 
i supposing it was that to which he referred. 

I “ Ah !" he replied, stammering, and looking up at her, as 
j she stood over him, with that soft intellectual beauty in her 
I eyes, “ I hardly know myself. " She laughed a pleasant lit- 
tle laugh, and looked puzzled. “ It seemed to me just 
; now,” he continued, ” that you were not yourself at all. 
j Why, Sylvy, ” and he gazed up at her wonderingly, ” it 
I . seems to me that you have quite outgrown me, somehow. 

I What is it ? what has come over you You are not the same 
Sylvy, and, strangely enough, I never noticed it until to-day. ” 

” I’m sure, Ollie,” said his sister, ” I don’t know what 
great difference you can see in me : I cannot have changed 
so greatly as you seem to imagine ; and I have not outgrown 
you at all : you are still several inches taller than I am. ’ ’ 

” It’s not that I mean,” replied Oliver. ” I am not 
speaking in a physical sense when I say you have outgrown 
me, but rather in a spiritual sense.” 

” Oh ! I think I understand you,” said Sylvia, taking her 
1 seat behind him, so as to watch his work ; ” but I don’t 
know why you should say so.” 

” Nor I either,” said Oliver, as he retraced the outline of 
a figure in his sketch ; ” but so it is, though I can give no 
lucid reason why. What were you reading, Sylvy ?” 

” Mrs. Browning’s poems.” 

” Do you like them ?” 

” More than that : I love them.” 

” Can you tell the reason why ?” 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


304 


No, I cannot. I know that I love them , I feel that 
there is excellence in them, though I cannot define it.” 

“That’s it,” said Oliver, working away, and saying no 
more about the sudden inspiration that had come to him 
with regard to his sister ; she had been revealed to him like 
the inner meaning ot a poem, the beauty and excellence of 
which he could not explain. “ That’s it,” he repeated, 
after a few minutes’ silence ; “ and just so I feel about a 
great picture like the ‘ Transfiguration ’ of Raphael or the 
‘ St. Jerome ’ of Domenichino in the Vatican : I know I 
love them, and I feel their excellence, though I can no more 
explain the reason why than I can explain the souls of the 
men that painted them. When I hear men who call them- 
seWes connoisseurs — I think the Frenchman who invented the 
word ought to have been hung — talking about design, draw- 
ing, coloring, etc., in connection with such pictures, I turn 
away in disgust. Anybody who can dissect a good picture 
in cold blood can have no appreciation of its spiritual 
essence — and the same may be said, I think, of a poem.” 

“ Here’s a man here,” said Elsie Brown, opening the sit- 
ting-room door from without, and shoving it wide open, to 
admit a tall, handsome gentleman, who entered with a comi- 
cal smile on his face. 

Oliver and Sylvia looked up with consternation in their 
faces when they heard Elsie’s voice, pitched at its highest 
key, announcing the arrival of a visitor after this fashion ; 
but as soon as their eyes encountered those of their guest, 
they both burst out laughing, while he joined them in their 
merriment. The gentleman was a man of about thirty-five 
years of age, and no one could possibly have mistaken his 
nationality. He was thoroughly English, possessing all the 
peculiar characteristics of the race, though in his case those 
characteristics, which are somewhat angular in many of his 
countrymen, were smoothed and polished off by travel and 
much intercourse with the world at large. 

“ Ah Mr. Gathwright !” said Sylvia, as she and her 
brother rose to receive their visitor, “ we must beg you to ex- 
cuse the reception you met with on our threshold ; but our 
old servant really knows no better. ’ ’ 

“ And she is most too old to learn now,” said Oliver, in- 
viting Mr. Gathwright to be seated. 

“ Oh ! you need make no excuses for her,” replied the 
Englishman, laughing again ; “ she is not the queerest speci- 
men of humanity that I have met with, I assure you.” 

“ She is z. very old servant,” said Sylvia, “ and as good 
as gold in her proper sphere, which is the kitchen. I don’t 


SYLVIA. 305 

know what she could have been thinking of, ushering in vis- 
itors, which is the duty of our little Italian maid.” 

” I encountered her at the door in the street,” said Gath- 
wright, ‘ ‘ where she was chaffering with a man who was fur- 
nishing her with vegetables. Their conversation — if it may 
be called such — was well worth listening to. Her Italian 
vocabulary is evidently limited, and something, awful ; but 
the fellow seemed to understand her, and they got along 
wonderfully well together. I thought she must be a species 
of the genus American, and so I waited until she had got 
through with her bargains, and then addressed her in Pol- 
ish, ^speaking very deliberately, and laying an especial em- 
phasis on every uncouth sound. I wish that you could have 
seen her : I believe she would have run away if she hadn’t 
dropped nearly all her vegetables, which I helped her to 
gather up, speaking to her as I did so in my own tongue. 

‘ My goodness gracious ! ’ she said, when she heard the 
familiar sounds, ‘ I thunk sure you wus one o’ them there 
cannibals, fur nothin’ but a cannibal could talk that kind a 
lingo you was talkin’ jest now, I knows. ’ Having satisfied 
her that there was no danger of my eating her, I prevailed 
upon her to show me up to your apartments, though she said 
‘ it wa’nt none o’ her bisniss ; but that there leettle I talian 
gaPs.’ ” ^ 

Gathwright’s amusing description of his meeting with 
Elsie Brown created a great deal of mirth, for he imitated 
her voice and manner of speaking as well as if he had been 
accustomed to people of her class all his life ; but when he 
heard how she happened to come to Italy, and the terror 
and mental misery she had endured for the love she bore 
her young master and mistress, he said he would never ridi- 
cule her again, for there certainly must be a noble and un- 
selfish nature under that rough exterior. 

” It is quite a surprise to see you in Rome so soon, Mr. 
Gathwright,” said Sylvia. 

” We thought you would be in Egypt or Constantinople 
by this time,” added Oliver. 

” I started for L’ Orient, it is true,” was the response, 
” but I got no farther than Sicily ; and after spending some 
time knocking about the island, I concluded to return to 
Rome and go into winter quarters. The fact is, I believe I 
begin to weary of travel.” 

” I cannot imagine how any one can ever weary of 
travel,” said Sylvia. ” It seems to me that the more one 
sees of strange countries and peoples, the more one would 
wish to see.” 


3o6 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


* * But when you have seen about all countries and peoples 
worth seeing, what then ?” 

“ Like an entertaining book, they will surely be worth a 
second and even a third perusal. Oliver, now, doesn’t 
agree with me in this : he says he would be perfectly con- 
tent to stay in Rome the balance of his days.” 

” Yes,” said Oliver, ” that at least is my impression at 
present.” 

“You are like many artists whom I have known, Mr. 
Maxwell. Rome is their Mecca, and some of them, I be- 
lieve, would die if they were forced to leave it with no hope 
of returning. But it has always been so since the days of 
Buonarotti and Raphael. Rome has been the great centre 
— the sun around which all art has revolved ; and I really 
believe if every picture and statue in the place were de- 
stroyed, the artists would still come to their beloved city, 
like Marius, to weep over the ruins.” 

“ Artists are certainly a queer race of beings,” said Sylvia, 
laughing. 

“ Indeed they are. Miss Maxwell. Just think of their 
preferring, above all other places of the same kind, that 
stuffy, dirty old Cafe Greco, where you can’t get a decent 
cup of coffee or an eatable pasticcio^ just because Raphael, 
Giorgione, and those other fellows used to go there. You 
ought to get your brother to take you there once — that is, 
whenever you feel inclined to visit a menagerie. ’ ’ 

“ Well, they are a queer lot,” said Oliver, laughing. 

“ I often tell my brother that in a few years it will be 
next to impossible to live in the same house with him, for he 
will be as full of eccentricities as the balance of them.” 

“ There IS only one hope for you, Mr. Maxwell,” said 
Gathwright. 

‘ ‘ What is that ?’ ’ asked Oliver. ‘ ‘ I would like to be made 
acquainted with some panacea for artistic insanities.” 

“ Marry, sir. Get a good, sensible wife just as soon as 
ever you can. I have always noticed that painters and 
poets who have wives endowed with a fair amount of com- 
mon-sense always make respectable members of society ; I 
suppose the common-sense of the wives acts as a sort of 
counter-weight to keep the intellectual scales properly ad- 
justed. What do you think. Miss Maxwell ? Am I not right ?” 

“ I don’t think I am competent to express an opinion on 
that subject,” replied Sylvia: “my acquaintance with ar- 
tists and their wives is too limited as yet. My remarks just 
now referred to such of the brotherhood as one sees about 
the streets and in the galleries.” 


SYLVIA. 


307 


“ Well, they ar^ an extraordinary-looking host, truly,*’ 
said the Englishman, laughing ; especially the German 
element, as your American politicians would say. And yet, 
Mr. Maxwell, I’ll venture to say, if you remain a bachelor 
and live in Rome, you will gradually fall into their ways and 
grow into their likeness.” 

Oliver laughed, and said he didn’t think he should ever 
become so reckless as regards hair and personal apparel, let 
what might happen. 

Their visitor remained some time longer ; and after he 
was gone, Oliver jokingly asked Sylvia what she thought of 
the matrimonial ideas that had been suggested to him. 

” I think you need be in no haste, Ollie,” said his sister, 
” notwithstanding Mr. Gathwright’s prophetic warnings. 
I’ll not permit you to grow rusty and crusty : you may rest 
assured of that. ’ ’ 

” Ah ! I suppose not,” said Oliver, ” as long as I /lave 
you to keep me in order ; but who can tell how long that 
will be ? It will come in the natural order of things for you 
to get married yourself some fine day.” 

A soft rosy tint arose to the young girl’s cheeks, and flick- 
ered there for a moment. The thought of marriage — even 
in the remote future — had never entered the pure mind of 
the maiden, and the mere suggestion of such a possibility by 
another made her blush. After a few minutes’ silence, she 
said, ” Mr. Gathwright, it seems to me, is one of those peo- 
ple who give advice which they are very far from profiting 
by themselves.” 

” Perhaps he has never met with a woman possessed of 
that treasure, common-sense, which he so much lauds.” 

“ He was speaking with especial regard to artists and 
poets in that connection. He deals in common sense him- 
self, and will think, perhaps, if he should ever desire to 
change his condition, that he will be entitled to choose a 
wife whose mind does not run in the same groove as his own. ’ ’ 

“ Oho !” said Oliver, laughing ; “ then, according to his 
philosophy, erratics, like artists and poets, must mate with 
good, hard common-sense, and vice versa. Well, when 
everybody agrees to act upon such excellent advice, the 
utopian dreams of the idealists will be realized : we shall see 
good old common-sense leading fancy and imagination 
about, watching over the two wayward children, and keep- 
ing them from hurting themselves ; while they sport with 
each other, and amuse their faithful nurse with their inno- 
cent gambols, taking care not to get out of range of her 
severe and critical eye. ” 


3o8 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** O Ollie !” said his sister, laughing at the picture he had 
drawn, “ don’t make fun of what is really a sensible idea.” 

” I’m not making fun at all, Sylvy, ” replied her brother ; 
and then, after a few minutes’ sifence, he asked, ” Have you 
ever read the fable of Pegasus ?” 

” Schiller’s, you mean ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I have read a translation of it,” said Sylvia. “ Mr. 
Dinning lent it to me ; but I don’t understand German well 
enough yet to read it in the original text. But why do you 
ask me that question ?” 

“ Because I think, like Schiller, that Pegasus will always 
be the wild, winged steed he has always been.” 

“ Well, I don’t know about that, Ollie,” replied Sylvia, 
“ but some of our modern poets have certainly proved that 
common-sense may ride and guide him, and he loses none of 
his spirit by being so mounted ; though who can blame him 
for objecting to be yoked with the dull ass or the stupid 
ox ?” 

“ Ah ! that is true enough,” said Oliver, “ though it never 
occurred to me before. Didn’t I tell you awhile back that 
you had outgrown me ? See I you are become my teacher. 
You are like a fine melon, my dear : you have been ripening 
from within ; and the smooth, green rind, beautiful as it is, 
is nothing to compare with the rich feast inside.” 

This praise from her brother was very pleasant to Sylvia. 
She had a loving sister’s faith in him — in his goodness, his 
wisdom, his genius — and though he was really in no way her 
superior, she imagined he was, and had been accustomed 
to look up to him, seeking his advice and accepting his opin- 
ion on all occasions. 

She had told Clarissa in one of her letters that she was 
trying to educate herself up to what she, in her blind love, 
^.onsidered his higher level, and she sat wondering now if 
•she had succeeded in doing so, when he, having put his 
work away, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. 

“ Come, my pensive sister,” he said, “ come back from 
the land of dreams, and tell me what you have seen there.” 

“ O Ollie !” she cried, starting up, for she had had no 
idea of his close proximity, “ what is it ?” 

“ I knew you were dreaming, dear,” he replied, laugh- 
ing ; “ but I hope I haven’t roused you at any very interest- 
ing crisis ; for my object is altogether selfish : I wish to take 
a look at a certain picture in the Spada Gallery, and I would 
like your company.” 

“ it seems to me as if my life were all a dream here,” said 


OLIVER MAXWELL FINDS HIS IDEAL. 3^9 

Sylvia musingly, as she put on her hat, ‘‘ and I sometimes 
doubt if I will ever be able to come back to real common- 
place life again/' 

‘'You are right," responded her brother ; " life here is 
indeed a dream, and a very pleasant dream." 


CHAPTER XII. 

OLIVER MAXWELL FINDS HIS IDEAL, AND A GREAT TRAV- 
ELLER FINDS THAT THERE IS SOMETHING PLEASANTER 

THAN TRAVEL. 

Oliver and Sylvia inhabited a suite of rooms in the third 
story of a large house on the Piazza di Spagna, and they had 
engaged the apartments on the second story — or piano., as 
the Italians call it — for their friends Mr. Wetherby and 
Clarissa, who arrived in Rome in October. 

By this time Oliver was well settled to his work, and Mr. 
Wetherby, instead of becoming more sociable in his habits, 
evincing a greater repugnance than ever to the society of his 
fellow-men, the two girls, Sylvia and Clarissa, found them- 
selves left pretty much to their own resources — to amuse 
themselves as best they might. With Mrs. Gwyn for a 
chaperon, they traversed picture-galleries and churches with 
indefatigable zeal. 

This was all very fine for young people, but the old lady 
found it wearing both to mind and body. She never com- 
plained, however, and in a little while she learned a trick 
which saved her from the disgrace of having to acknowledge 
herself utterly used up and broken down. Whenever the 
young ladies entered a picture-gallery, through which she 
knew well they would loiter all the morning, she would seat 
herself on the first bench or chair she came to, and there re- 
main until they were ready to leave ; or if they visited a 
church she would kneel before the altar of some little side 
chapel, and making herself as comfortable as she could on 
her knees, await their pleasufe. If she fell asleep during 
her devotion, and slept the sleep of the just — or wearied — in 
the presence of the Holy Virgin, she considered it no sacri- 
lege, as the devotions themselves were an extra donation, 
which would not have been offered at all under ordinary 
circumstances. 

Oliver sometimes relieved Mrs. Gwyn from duty ; but of 
course he could not do so very often without neglecting his 


310 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


studies, and pleasant as such rambles, with such compan- 
ions, were to him, he would not do that. To him, 
Clarissa Wetherby was the fairest and the sweetest creat- 
ure, except his beloved sister, that he had ever known ; 
and in the solitude of his studio, when he mused over 
that vision of beauty which he hoped some day to be able 
to seize and embody in color, her image came ever upper- 
most in his thoughts. He felt an indescribable longing for 
this pure and gentle girl — a longing different from that 
which he felt for Sylvia when she was away from his side — a 
longing which it gave him a strange kind of pleasure to in- 
dulge in — a pleasure which amounted almost to bliss, inas- 
much as he knew it would be satisfied. He thought of her 
often as he had first seen her lying insensible on the deck of 
the Shooting Star, when she had appeared to him as the 
realization of his ideal — the embodiment of that vision of 
beauty upon which his imagination had so often dwelt, but 
never been able to satisfy his soul. He did not know that 
he was in love. He knew that he loved to look at her — 
that he loved to feel her sweet presence about him ; but he 
had never analyzed his feeling, never separated the love of 
the artist for the beautiful from the love of the man for the 
woman as considered without reference to mere external 
charms. 

There is a spiritual beauty which makes woman the object 
of love in its purest, highest sense, and without which the 
most beautiful woman is really unlovable. She may be the 
object of passion — mere animal delight ; but she can never 
inspire that love which passeth the understanding of man, as 
some of her less beautiful sisters often do. Clarissa pos- 
sessed this spiritual beauty, without which her physical 
beauty would have lost half its charms, and Oliver Maxwell 
felt it though he knew it not. Had he been less an artist he 
might, perhaps, have understood his own feelings better ; 
but being an artist, with an artist’s innate love for the form 
of beauty, he had not yet learned that there was a soul with- 
in the shrine at which he worshipped, without which the 
shrine itself would have been a dead creation, with no more 
power over him than that possessed by a picture or a statue. 
Sylvia read her brother’s feelings better than he read them 
himself. She soon discovered that he loved this dear friend 
and companion ; but with innate delicacy she never touched 
upon the subject, feeling sure that he would make her his 
confidante in good time. She did not know how little he 
knew of himself. 

Mr. Wetherby clung to the privacy of a room that had 


OLIVER MAXWELL FINDS HIS IDEAL, 




been set apart for his own especial use. He had supplied 
himself with books, and seldom showed himself except at 
meal times, or very late in the day, when he took long 
walks, no one knew whither. One would have supposed, 
from the life he led, that he was some ascetic philosopher, 
who, hating the world, avoided all contact with it. But he 
was nothing of the kind. He always listened attentively and 
sorrowfully to his daughter's accounts of such cases of dis- 
tress as she happened to meet with, and was generous in re- 
lieving them — at second-hand — that is, through her ; and 
when he went out himself he always carried his pockets well 
supplied with small coins, which he distributed lavishly 
among the poor who came in his way. He was, in fact, a 
man of kindly feeling, but eaten up with a morbid melan- 
choly, for which there was probably some secret cause best 
known to himself. 

His time being thus spent, his daughter sought solace in 
the society of her two young friends, and their evenings 
were generally passed together, when Oliver, having consci- 
entiously performed his daily labor, felt supremely happy. 
Sometimes they went to the opera or theatre, or to stroll 
upon the Pincio, when the weather was good and the moon 
spread her silvery sheen over the face of the earth ; but the 
most of these precious hours were spent at home, Oliver 
reading aloud from some favorite author, or Clarissa “ dis- 
coursing sweet music." Clarissa had a pure, sweet soprano 
voice, with a certain pathos in it — owing probably to the sad 
consciousness of that undefined misery in her life — and sang 
those ballads of the unhappy — her usual choice — with a feel- 
ing akin to knowledge of the secret springs of grief that had 
moved the souls of those who had written them. 

Sylvia had noticed a subdued sadness in the manner and 
voice of her friend since she came to Rome, which had not 
been there before, and wondered what could be the cause of 
it. The girl’s usual manner was so soft and gentle that the 
little cloud of sorrow was not at all times perceptible even to 
Sylvia’s loving eyes ; but she seemed to feel it though she 
did not always perceive it, and unconsciously spoke in that 
tone of sympathy which we naturally assume when address- 
ing those who have some cause for grief. 

Clarissa had never whispered aught of her troubles to Syl- 
via. She clung to the belief that time would prove that her 
father was sinned against, not sinning ; and though she 
often sighed for sympathy and comfort — the comfort of 
some kind friend who would agree with her in what she 
wished to believe, for that is the only kind of comfort we 


312 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


most of US desire in all such cases — the doubts which would as- 
sail her in spite of herself withheld her from confiding her mis- 
erable secret to another. 

Soon after her arrival in Rome, she had told Sylvia some- 
thing about Yorke ; not much, however — for she feared her 
friend would think it strange that her father should be on 
intimate terms with such a man — but a mildly-drawn de- 
scription of him, and what she knew of his pretensions with 
regard to Miss Weston, though she did not think it neces- 
sary to state how she became acquainted with those preten- 
sions. 

Oliver had already written to Alford, telling him what had 
been learned with regard to Elenor’s movements ; but when 
he received this fresh intelligence through his sister, he 
wrote again. Without explaining his reason for such advice 
— he did not wish to give his friend new cause for anxiety — 
he urged him to come to Europe as soon as he could make 
it convenient to do so. Had he not known that Alford had 
sufficient money laid by to defray the expenses of the trip, 
he would have offered to advance him enough for the pur- 
pose, so anxious was he that the enemies of the lovers 
should be defeated in their designs. 

One afternoon, when Clarissa was engaged with a music- 
teacher whom her father had employed to instruct her, and 
Sylvia was seated alone in her sitting-room, Mr. Gathwright 
paid a visit to Oliver’s studio. Now his visit to the broth- 
er’s studio was simply a rather lame excuse for spending 
the afternoon with the sister ; it was so natural — and noth- 
ing more than civil- that he should, on leaving the studio, 
stop to inquire after the health of the young lady — and 
sometimes it takes a very long time to get a satisfactory 
diagnosis of the health of people in whom we are very much 
interested. 

Harold Gathwright was very much interested in Sylvia 
Maxwell ; he acknowledged it to himself, and desired noth- 
ing better than to acknowledge it to her, whenever he should 
feel assured that he might do so without danger of frighten- 
ing her away from him altogether. He soon found out that 
“ she walked in meditation, fancy-free,” that there was no 
rough and tough backswoodsman nor soft and simpering city 
dandy awaiting her return to America with love’s impa- 
tience ; but he found out, too — or fancied he did — that 
she was like one of those brown-eyed stately does that 
roamed at large in her native land — not to be approached — 
at least in a certain way, the way he wished to go — except 
by cunning art and strategy. 


OLIVER MAXWELL EINDS HIS IDEAL. 313 

Gathwright was a man of the world, fully versed in the 
ways of the world, though free from its worst vices. In all 
his experience he had never met with a Sylvia Maxwell until 
his path had crossed that of the real Sylvia herself on that 
summer’s day at Rocca di Papa — for he was the English gen- 
tleman to whom Sylvia had referred in her letter to Clarissa 
— and then and there he had died, metaphorically, and his 
heart been taken out and embalmed, like a second Bruce — 
glorious and fortunate rebel. 

He had started for the Orient when the summer birds 
were pluming their wings on the mountain-top, preparatory 
to their cityward flight, fully intending to spend the winter 
in Egypt or Turkey, perhaps going as far as India and the 
Celestial Empire ; but as we have seen he only got as far as 
Sicily. He did not know how hard hit he was until he at- 
tempted to retreat, and then, like many a demoralized 
army, he discovered that it was utterly impossible to get 
away ; and when he got to Sicily, instead of continuing his 
flight, he stopped to consider if it would not be best to re- 
turn and surrender at discretion. We may guess to what 
conclusion he arrived. 

After his return to Rome he became a frequent visitor to 
Oliver’s studio. He manifested great interest in the young 
painter — whether real or affected who shall say We are apt 
to show an interest in the brothers of the young ladies in 
whom we are interested, and we would find it a difficult task 
to decide for ourselves whether our interest is real or not. 
However that might be, his half-hour visits to the studio 
generally ended in hour visits in the sitting-room, as hap- 
pened on the day in question. 

Gathwright found Sylvia with a German grammar in her 
hand, which she was trying to master, and the time he spent 
with her was occupied chiefly in discussing the peculiar 
characteristics of different languages and their adaptability 
to various kinds of literature. 

The Englishman had not as yet, by word or look, be- 
trayed the real object he had in view ; but had been satis- 
fied with establishing himself on an intimate footing in the 
household. As before stated, he was afraid of frightening 
the bird he desired to capture. Besides this, he feared the 
disparity of age might prove an obstacle in his way. ' He 
knew that young girls are prone to be attracted by the 
charms and graces of youth, rather than the solid, steady 
virtues of mature manhood ; and he thought that by gradu- 
ally accustoming Sylvia to his ways she m.ight come event- 
ually to overlook his age — for he had lately learned to look 


‘ 314 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


upon himself as quite an old man, though he was still some 
years on the sunny side of forty. He had not found out 
that Sylvia Maxwell was one of those maidens who are not 
to be fascinated by mere youth and beauty, who would 
rather cling to the sturdy oak — an old simile, but a good 
one, like most old things — and feel grateful for its protec- 
tion, than “ twine herself in a true-love knot’’ with a flower 
that only differed from herself in that it was of another gen- 
der. 

“ By the bye,” said Gathwright, after he had risen to take 
his departure — having prolonged his visit a half hour longer 
than he had intended : the man was in the meshes, and it 
was hard to tear himself away — ” have you heard any thing 
more about Miss Weston ? Do you know I was very much 
interested in what you told me, and have intended to ask 
you further about it ; but I really can’t tell why I have not 
done so.” The fact was, he had been too much engrossed 
with his own love to think of the loves of other people. 

“Yes,” replied Sylvia, “ I’ve heard much of her. When 
you met her at Dijon she had just left a convent in which 
she had been living as a boarder, and I have recently heard 
that she was going to be married.” 

“ What !” he said, “ has the painter — her lover, I mean — 
found her ?” 

“ No, Mr. Alford is still in America ; but there is a man 
named Yorke who says he is to be married to her in a few 
months. I cannot believe it.” 

“ Yorke, Yorke,” said Gathwright musingly, “ I think I 
have met a man of that name somewhere. What sort of a 
fellow is he. Miss Maxwell ?” 

“ I have never seen him,” replied Sylvia ; “ but from the 
description I have had of him, I should think he was not a 
man whom most people — least of all women — would like. ’ ’ 

“ Is he an American ?” asked Gathwright, a sudden ray 
of intelligence illuminating his face. 

“ I believe so.” 

“ Ah ! I think I know him — or at least, know much of 
him — and if he is the same man I am thinking of, there is 
no reliance to be placed in any thing he says. As to the 
possibility of Miss Weston — whom I know well — ever be- 
coming his wife, I think you may set your mind at rest.” 

“ And you don’t think there is any truth in what this Mr. 
Yorke says ? I must confess 1 was troubled when I heard 
it, never having met Miss Weston — and thinking so much as 
Ollie and I do of Mr. Alford — and it being impossible to 
find out where she is. In fact, every thing about her seems 


OLIVER MAXWELL FINDS HIS IDEAL. 315 

to be so mixed up with mystery that I could not feel assured 
of every thing turning out as we wish. We cannot tell what 
influence may have been brought to bear upon her.” 

” I don’t think you need trouble yourself further about it, 
Miss Maxwell. The man I have reference to is a liar and a 
cheat ; and from my knowledge of Miss Weston, I am sure 
that nothing would induce her to marry him, and in these 
days women can’t be forced to wed against their will. This 
Yorke — I don’t believe his real name is Yorke at all, for he 
is an Irishman, though he professes to be a native-born 
American — and Yorke is not an Irish name. He has gotten 
fairly rid of the brogue, and it takes one who is well ac- 
quainted with the Irish to detect his nationality ; and I may 
say, I never saw a man who was ashamed of the land that 
gave him birth who was not a scoundrel. But, as I was go- 
ing to say, this man is an infamous liar and a swindler — the 
two qualities generally go together — the liar is a thief at 
heart, and the thief a liar. I had altogether forgotten the 
gentleman., several years having elapsed since I met him ; 
but I remember him now, and will tell you what I know 
about him. When he first made his appearance in Paris, he 
got into the society of gentlemen — by what means I never 
could find out— but it was soon discovered that the element 
truth was lacking in almost every thing he said ; and as it is 
pretty generally conceded that one who lies lacks the first 
principle of gentility — and even respectability — the best fel- 
lows dropped him. Those who were not so particular and 
still acknowledged him as an acquaintance — laughing at his 
lies among themselves, as if they were good jokes — event- 
ually detected him in cheating at cards — which in their opin- 
ions was a much more heinous offence — and hustled him out 
without ceremony. Since then, I believe, he has been wan- 
dering about Europe as a chevalier d' Industide^ and has, on 
one or two occasions, barely escaped getting into trouble 
with the police. I don’t know why, but I feel sure that the 
man who says he is going to be married to Miss Weston is 
the same of whom I have been telling you.” 

” And you think there is no truth in this tale of his ?” 

“You may rest assured that there is not a word of truth 
in it. However, I wonder your friend does not come him- 
self, and make some effort to find his lady-love. If I were 
he, I would search the world over but that I would discover 
what has become of her — if I had to travel on foot and sleep 
in the fields.” 

” Ah !” said Sylvia, with a quiet little laugh, ” you forget 
that you cannot walk upon the ocean.” 


3i6 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


That’s a fact,” said Gathwright, joining in the laugh. 
” I had entirely forgotten that little matter ; but though I 
might not be able to muster up sufficient faith to attempt 
such a feat of pedestrianism, I think I should find some way 
to get over it.” 

” However,” continued Sylvia, ” I must not let you think 
that Mr. Alford is indifferent in an affair that so nearly con- 
cerns him ; he will probably be in Europe before long. He 
is an artist, you know, and far from rich, but could hardly 
go walking about the world like a knight-errant on foot, 
even though the Atlantic Ocean didn’t stand in his way.” 

“Come, now. Miss Maxwell,” protested Gathwright, 
“you are laughing at me. Well, I suppose it does seem 
rather silly in an old fellow like me to talk like a Jeune chev- 
alier,, and before I say something still more foolish, I’ll go. 
A rive derci.'' 

Sylvia gave him her hand, and he could not resist bestow- 
ing upon the slender fingers a little tender pressure, which 
brought to her cheeks a rosy flush that remained there some 
time after his departure. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MONSIEUR PINCE. 

“ Now, monsieur,, you understand the bearings of the 
case, what do you think about it ?” asked Gathwright. 

The Englishman spoke in French, but Monsieur Pince an- 
swered in English, of his proficiency in which language he 
was rather vain : with very good reason, too, for he spoke it 
fluently, and with scarcely any foreign accent — even imitat- 
ing the peculiar intonation of the thoroughbred Cockney 
when it suited his purpose. 

“ Yes, sir,” he replied, “ I understand. The lady has 
mysteriously disappeared, as your English journals would 
say, and this gentleman, her betrothed ” — turning to Alford 
— “ has not heard from her in — say, six, eight, several 
months.” Alford nodded his head, but did not interrupt 
him. “ Yorke — Ragan — Con Ragan — you see I know him, 
(yes, I’ve had some business transactions with him — ha, 
ha !)” He laughed almost noiselessly. “ Monsieur Yorke 

let us call him that for the present, since he evidently pre- 
fers the name himself, and it is just as well to show some 


MONSIEUR PINCE. 


317 


deference to the tastes of those with whom we have to deal. 
Well, Monsieur Yorke, it is supposed, knows where she is, 
is a friend of her step-father — beau-pere we call it in French, 
but it doesn’t always fit : the belle langue takes things a little 
too much for granted sometimes, I will admit. Monsieur 
Yorke has told somebody that he is going to marry the 
young lady ; but that, you may take my word for it, is a 
lie. I have transacted many little affairs with this Ra — I 
beg his pardon. Monsieur Yorke, I would say — and I have 
never yet known him to tell the truth when he could lay his 
tongue to a lie ; and his power of invention is something 
marvellous. You say he has a correspondent now residing 
in this city ?” 

“ Yes,” said Gathwright, ” there is a gentleman whom we 
know of who writes to and receives letters from him ; and 
he has a sister residing in that gentleman’s family. She is a 
very worthy woman, I believe, though she has got a scamp 
of a brother.” 

” Ah ! — but that is nothing strange,” said Monsieur 
Pince ; ” some of the greatest rascals I have ever had to 
deal with were scions of aristocratic families — the blue 
blood, as you call it, seemed to have become a little too 
blue, and moral gangrene was the consequence — ha, ha ! 
Does the sister write to her brother ?” 

” I don’t know. But perhaps Mr. Maxwell can tell us,” 
turning to Oliver, who was present at the conference. 

” Whether she does or not makes very little difference,” 
said Oliver, ” as Mr. Wetherby does, I know.” 

” Will he give us the address of Yorke, do you/think, 
monsieur ?” 

” I see no reason why he shouldn’t.” 

” Ah !” said the Frenchman, with his curious subdued 
laugh, ” monsieur is young, and of course has not seen much 
of the world — at least my little — the world of thieves and 
rascals. Gentlemen who correspond with men like Yorke 
are not always so ready to furnish the address of one of 
their correspondents. Do you understand ?” 

” Yes, I suppose I understand what you mean,” replied 
Oliver, with a touch of indignation in his tone ; ” but I 
think such insinuations are uncalled for in this case.” 

” Mr. Wetherby is a friend of Mr. Maxwell’s,” said Gath- 
wright, ” and is a gentleman.” 

” Ah !” said Monsieur Pince ; ” I beg your pardon, 
monsieur. You must excuse me ; but you see, you know 
one man and I know the other. However, if you can get 
us this address from your friend it will be very plain sailing. 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


31^ 

If we have the address I can track him and probably find 
the lady. ’ ' 

“ Very well,'* said Oliver, whose feathers were still a lit- 
tle ruffled — he could not at once get over the feeling of in- 
dignation aroused by the Frenchman’s remarks — “ very 
well, if you will leave this matter to me I think I can man- 
age it without any difficulty.’* 

“ Very good, monsieur,” said the Frenchman, ” we will 
leave it to you. But you must not be angry with me : the 
business of my life has been to Lant thieves ; and, very nat- 
urally, I have my doubts of those who have dealings with 
them. You understand, monsieur ?** 

” Oh yes !” replied the young man, somewhat mollified, 
” I understand, and we will say no more about it.” 

” Now, as to the expenses connected with this matter. 
Monsieur Pince, ” said Gathwright. ” I engaged your ser- 
vices ; but Mr. Alford is really the party in whose service 
you are employed. In all my dealings with you I have 
found you very liberal in your financial views, and in this 
case you must bear in mind the fact, that should you be 
successful in your undertaking, there will be the expenses of 
a wedding to fall upon my friend soon after. Eh ! Mr. Al- 
ford, am I not right ?” 

‘‘ Perhaps so,” replied Alford, who had had nothing to 
say heretofore ; ” but let us find the young lady first.” 

‘‘Just so,” said Monsieur Pince; ‘‘for what said your 
English cook ? — Leslie, I believe you call him : ‘ To make 
a hare pie, first catch your hare.’ Ah ! Monsieur Leslie was 
a wise cook, for when you have caught your hare you may 
be sure your hare pie will not be made of veal. Good ! let 
us catch our hare. As to the expenses, you know I have 
given up the old business ; so if I undertake this case it will 
be merely for the love of it — money will be no consideration 
— and all I will ask of Monsieur Alford will be to pay my 
expenses, travelling, etc.” 

‘‘ But that will hardly be fair,” said x\lford. “ Your time 
is surely worth something to you, and I will insist.” 

” Ta, ta,” interrupted Pince, ‘‘ time is nothing to me 
now : my sole object in life is, to pass it pleasantly. No, 
no ; old father Time no longer pursues me, nor do I pursue 
him : we just go dancing along together, making merry with 
each other as best we may. I am what you call a gentleman 
of leisure, and will take fee from no man ; for if I did I 
would be obliged to consider myself back in the harness that 
I shook off some time ago, and no money, I assure you, 
gentlemen, would persuade me to put that on again. Take 


MONSIEUR PINCE, 


319 


me on my own terms or dismiss me — though, to tell the 
truth, I would not like to give up the case ; for what I used 
to sicken of sometimes — only sometimes though — when 
it was my daily work, has a new attraction when taken up 
as an amusement — you understand ?” 

Alford looked at Gathwright, who, smiling, nodded his 
head. 

“ Very well,’' said the artist, ‘‘ we would not like to dis- 
pense with your services. Monsieur Pince ; and as it is 
really a great favor you are conferring, of course we cannot 
stickle about terms.” 

” Ah — good !” said the Frenchman ; ” and now let us 
say no more about it for the present. I will see you again 
at the same hour to-morrow, and if monsieur has procured 
the address,” turning to Oliver, ” we will make our arrange- 
ments to travel at once, in whichever direction it shall tell 
us. Good-morning, gentlemen ;” and he was gone before 
they had time to return his salute. 

Alford had started for Rome as soon as he received a let- 
ter from Oliver, telling him of Yorke’s pretensions ; but be- 
fore his arrival in that city, Gathwright had met an old ac- 
quaintance in the person of Monsieur Pince. 

He met him in the Vatican, standing in front of Raphael’s 

Transfiguration.” He did not recognize the little French- 
man, but the Frenchman recognized him as the generous, 
amiable Englishman who had employed him in his profes- 
sional capacity of detective, to trace the parties to a myste- 
rious robbery that had occurred in Paris some years previous. 

Pince was intently studying the chef-Pauvre of the great 
Urbinese, when he heard a pleasant voice that he remem- 
bered to have heard before. He had a wonderful memory 
for faces and voices. He turned quickly on his heel and 
looked at the owner of this voice, which had such a pleasant 
musical ring in it, and remembered him at once. 

” Ah, Mr. Gathwright 1 ” he said, lifting his hat in true 
French style, but speaking without the slightest French ac- 
cent, ” I am glad to meet you : how do you do ?” 

Gathwright returned his salute with equal politeness, and 
did not regard him with that supercilious stare which some 
of his countrymen would bestow upon a stranger, though 
he did not recognize him. 

“You don’t remember me,” said Pince. “Well, lam 
not surprised ; you meet me in a new character — a searcher 
after the beautiful ; and really it is a pleasant occupation — 
much better than rogue hunting. Pince is my name. Ha, 
ha ! you remember me now ?” 


320 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ Of course, of course I do,'* replied Gathwright, shaking 
hands cordially with the little Frenchman. “ But it is 
hardly surprising that I didn’t know you at first ; you are not 
— in appearance at least — the same Monsieur Pince whom 
1 knew in Paris.” 

” No,” said Monsieur Pince, laughing in his noiseless 
way. ” The fact is, you never saw my true face in Paris ; I 
was obliged to wear another visage there — indeed many dif- 
ferent visages — and my good Gascon mother would not have 
known her son had he presented himself before her in any 
one of his Parisian disguises.” 

” But what are you doing here, of all places in the world, 
if I may ask, monsieur?” said the Englishman. “Surely 
the various ramifications peculiar to your business have not 
brought you within the precincts of the Vatican in an offi- 
cial capacity. ’ ’ 

“ No, no,” said Pince. “ My business here is just what 
it appears, not a pretence, under cover of which I wind my 
web around some wretched human fly. I am just now an 
ex-detective in search of the beautiful, and I think I have 
found it” — waving his hand towards the pictures in the 
room. 

“Yes?” responded Gathwright, with a look of amaze- 
ment in his eyes. 

“Yes,” said the other. “ It is matter of surprise to you 
that a man whose business it has been to hunt down rogues 
and such like vermin in the slums of London and Paris 
should have any appreciation of tne fine arts. Well, I am 
not offended : you are not to be blamed, looking from your 
point of view ; but did it never occur to you that my old 
business is really one of the fine arts ?” 

“ No, truly, it never did,” said Gathwright. 

“ There now, see how short-sighted you are ! Is not 
the vagabond of former times, the play-actor, ranked as 
an artist to-day? Yes, and he is an artist better known 
to the masses, and more highly appreciated by them, than 
either the poet, painter, or sculptor. Now then, if a 
man who acts a part on the stage of a theatre for a few 
hours a day is an artist, why not he who acts a part every 
hour in the day, with a v/hole city — or half a dozen cities 
— for his stage ? Why, my dear sir, I have made my- 
self up, face, figure, and all, from people I have met in the 
streets as well as from pictures I have seen in the galleries ; 
and I have acted as many different characters as some of 
our modern dramatists have drawn. Aha ! And besides 
all this, I have played my own plays — not such as were 


MONSIEUR PINCE, 


321 


written down for me, word for word, by a Shakespeare, a 
Moliere, or a Racine — altering the scenes and the conversa- 
tions to suit all manner of circumstances — sometimes on the 
spur of the moment. What do you think now, monsieur, 
eh? Ha, ha!’^ 

‘‘ Your argument certainly seems unanswerable,’' said 
Gathwright, laughing ; “ and I can but consider you hereafter 
as an artist — inimitable in your own peculiar line, I know. 
But have you laid aside your robes — that is, your different 
costumes and disguises — altogether ?’ ' 

‘'Yes, I have retired from the profession, and hope to 
spend the balance of my life in the enjoyment of a modest 
fortune that I have recently inherited.” 

” Well, I’m sorry to hear that — not as referring to your 
good fortune, of course — but that the professional corps to 
which you belonged has lost an ornament — a star.” 

The ex-detective had not laid aside the pride of the pro- 
fessional if he had retired from the profession, and he felt 
flattered. ” Thank you, monsieur, thank you,” he said. 
” Though I have given up my old tricks, I assure you the 
inclination is strong upon me at times to go back to them ; 
and should you ever be so situated as to need such services 
as I can render, I will be glad to assist you.” 

Gathwright thanked him for the offer, and promised, 
should he ever have a difficult case to unravel, to avail him- 
self of it, though at the time he hardly thought it probable 
that he should ever have occasion to do so. 

Soon after this meeting between the Englishman and the 
ex-detective, Alford arrived in Rome. 

After talking over his affairs with Oliver and his sister, 
and trying to fix upon some plan of action — a thing he found 
very difficult to do — he concluded to seek the advice of this 
pleasant and sensible Briton, of whom he had heard so much 
from both of his friends. 

He asked Oliver if he thought Gathwright would be 
averse to giving his counsel in so delicate an affair, and 
Oliver assuring him that he thought just the contrary, an in- 
troduction and consultation followed. 

The consequence of this consultation was, that Gath- 
wright sought a private interview with Monsieur Pince, who 
was still in the city. 

“I did not think,” said the former, when they were 
seated together in a room in the Hotd de Russe^ ‘ ‘ that I 
should ever have occasion to accept the offer which you 
made of your professional services when we met in the Vati- 
can, Monsieur Pince ; but I have become interested in a 


322 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


case since I saw you in which I would like also to interest 
you.” 

“ What sort of a case is it?” asked Pince, the old de^ 
tective fever beginning to show itself in his shrewd eyes. 

” It IS the case of a young lady who has mysteriously dis- 
appeared, and whose whereabouts cannot be discovered by 
her friends. It is rather a delicate matter, and a great favor 
to ask you to mix yourself up in it, as the young lady’s 
mother and step-father seem to be at the bottom of it ; but 
if you have any delicacy about lending your assistance — and 
I’m sure I have no right to expect you to undertake it — we 
will have to find some one in Paris or London who will. 
These Italian fellows, you know, are fit for nothing in that 
line ; they make very good spies, but they lack the scientific 
turn of mind that your thoroughly educated Parisian oi 
London detective possesses. 

Gathwright had noticed the awakened interest in the man’s 
eyes when he was approached in his old capacity, and 
thought by a little flattery to secure the object he had in 
view. He need not have been so stratagemical, however ; for 
Monsieur Pince was like an old deer-hound — who has been 
kept at home, his hunting days over — when he scents the 
game passing to the windward, ‘ ‘ his soul was in arms. ’ ’ 

“ VVhy should you beat about the bush. Monsieur Gath- 
wright ?” he demanded, jumping up and running to the 
window, as if he expected to see something in the Piazza del 
Popolo that would start him in his chase ; ” why should you 
beat about the bush ? Why not tell me what you want, and 
all about it ? Why do you talk about going to London or 
Paris ? You will find no better man for the occasion in 
either of those cities than he who stands before you. I can 
say it without vanity.” 

” Oh ! I know that well enough,” said Gathwright, well 
pleased with the success of his strategy ; ” but this is a little 
out of your old line. Monsieur Pince.” 

” That’s true enough,” said Pince. ” I have never been 
employed to hunt up lost young ladies — they don’t get lost 
often in these days — the most I have ever done in that way 
was to recover lost children. But I don’t know that the 
affair loses interest because a young lady is concerned. I 
never desert the fair sex, monsieur, under any circum- 
stance,” and he bowed gallantly, ” and I’ll do my best to 
find this lady, if you wish.” 

Gathwright grasped his hand. ” Thank you,” he said, 
” all right. Now I feel assured of success ; and let me tell 
you, for your own satisfaction, that this enterprise is one in 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE 323 

which an^y knight-errant of old might have been proud to 
engage.” 

Monsieur Pince was evidently pleased with the English- 
man’s way of putting it, and the upshot of the interview was 
the consultation recorded in the beginning of this chapter. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ADVENTURES OF ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 

Gathwright and Alford were seated together in the 
former’s apartment on the Via del Corso. They were await- 
ing the arrival of Monsieur Pince and Oliver Maxwell, and 
it was not long before the Frenchman entered the room, 
looking at his watch as he did so. 

” I am prompt, gentlemen,” he said. 

‘'Yes, monsieur,” replied Gathwright, “ you are in good 
time, and we were only a few minutes ahead of you. Mr. 
Maxwell has not come yet.” 

” Ah ! Perhaps he found more trouble in getting Mon- 
sieur Yorke’s address than he thought he would ; we shall 
see. Young men are apt to think there is no difficulty in a 
thing that seems so simple.” 

” I think he is coming now,” said Alford, as the sound 
of footsteps approaching was heard outside ; and he had 
scarcely finished speaking when Oliver entered the room. 

“Eh, monsieur!” said Pince, without any preliminary 
greeting, “you are here. And what success have you 
had ?” 

“ I have got the necessary address,” replied Oliver, hand- 
ing him an envelope, on the face of which a few words were 
written. The Frenchman looked at it, and as he did so a 
gleam of light sparkled in his black eyes. “ Aha !” was all 
he said, and passed the envelope to Alford. While he was 
examining it Pince turned to Oliver and asked if he had any 
trouble in getting it. 

“ None whatever,” was the reply. 

“ Did the gentleman write it himself ?” 

“ I suppose so, though I didn’t see him do it. Mrs. 
Gwyn, who is sister to Yorke, and housekeeper for Mr. 
Wetherby, procured it for me.” 

“ Didn’t she know her brother’s address herself ?” 

“ No^ she told me she never corresponded with her broth- 


324 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


er, but knew she could get his address from Mr. Weth- 
erby. 

“ And never asked any troublesome questions ?” 

“Not one. “ 

“ Ah — wonderful woman !“ 

While the two were talking together, Alford had showed 
the envelope to Gathwright, and explained something with 
regard to it in a low tone. 

“ Look here, Monsieur Pince,“ said the latter, “ Mr. Al- 
ford has been telling me something in connection with this 
address that I think will interest you.“ 

“What is that, monsieur?” asked Pince, turning to the 
artist. 

“ Well, it seems like a singular coincidence,” was the re- 
ply, “ but I went to that very place when I was in Paris a 
week or two ago, to inquire as to the present place of abode 
of the very lady of whom we are in quest. 

The Frenchman gave an almost imperceptible start, and 
fastened his eyes, with an inquiring look in them, on those 
of the other. “ You went there — to old Grandpre’s, Place 

del , to ask about the lady ? How came you to do 

that ? Why did you think he knew any thing about her ?’ ' 

Alford then related the circumstance of the letter that 
Mr. Hapton had received, and the suspicious signs about it, 
to all of which the ex-detective listened with intense interest. 

“So he didn’t send any money as directed?” he said 
when he had heard the end. 

“ No ; he felt too certain that there was something 
wrong.” 

“Wise gentleman. And what information did you get 
from Mr. Grandpre ?” 

“ None whatever. He said he had never heard of the 
lady before.” 

“ Ah ! perhaps not. Did you tell him anything about the 
letter which monsieur — ah — the lady’s guardian, had re- 
ceived ?” 

“ I did not think it advisable, as he professed to know 
nothing about her.” 

“ Good ! I am glad you were so prudent, and I rather 
wish that you hadn’t gone to him at all. If he told you a 
lie — and I am sure he did — your going there will have made 
him suspicious, and he has probably already communicated 
his suspicions to those in whose confidence he is ; for I know 
Grandpre of old, and I know he does no business with those 
who will not confide wholly in him. ^ However, that can’t 
be helped now. I’m satisfied of one thing : we are on the 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 3^5 

right scent. But come, monsieur, we must make our prepa- 
rations to start for Paris this very evening. I think we shall 
find our little hare — ha, ha ! — and we shall find her in a fox’s 
den and he snapped his fingers two or three times above 
his head to express his satisfaction. 

Alford found Monsieur Pince a very pleasant travelling 
companion. He was fond of talking, like most of his coun- 
trymen, and narrated adventures in his past career as a de- 
tective in an amusing and entertaining style. The two had 
the coupe of the diligence to themselves, and talked or 
smoked or slept without restraint, as suited their humors. 

Ah ! it is a pleasant thing travelling through the pleasant 
land of Italy in the cotipe of a diligence^ with a pleasant com- 
panion. As the great vehicle goes bounding along after a 
fashion that seems most perilous to the uninitiated, you 
lounge back in your dark little retreat, and while you scan 
the beautiful, ever-changing landscape, enjoy the aroma of a 
good cigar and sweet converse with your friend at the same 
time, undisturbed by the shouts of the post-boy, the crack of 
his whip, or the musical jingle of the horses’ bells. These 
things seem to add a pleasant variety to the pleasant situa- 
tion in which you find yourself. Your isolation with your 
friend appears complete, even with the post-boy shouting 
and cracking his whip beneath you ; he, in his fanciful cos- 
tume, is simply a bright spot of color in each and every pic- 
ture, that opens successively upon your view. 

In the days of which I write there were but few railways 
in Italy, and travelling was chiefly done by diligence^ and I 
cannot help but think that the tour has lost some of its de- 
lights by the abolishment of the time-honored vehicles, and 
the substitution of the railway-carriage. The puffing loco- 
motive, with its everlasting rattle, can hardly replace the 
galloping horses, with their jingling bells ; and the shrill 
steam-whistle must affright the mountain echoes that used to 
answer so merrily to the post-boy’s shout. 

Alford, whose heart had been very much lightened by 
Monsieur Pince’ s confident assurance of a successful issue 
to their undertaking, enjoyed the journey with all the enthu- 
siastic delight of an artist, though this picturesque mode of 
travelling through a picturesque country was no novelty to 
him. 

They stopped a day in Florence, and Monsieur Pince, 
leaving his travelling companion to enjoy himself in his own 
way, went off on a mission of inquiry. At dinner- time he 
returned to the hotel, and told Alford that neither Mr. nor 


326 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Mrs. Tulip, nor Miss Weston, had been in Florence for the 
past two months at any rate. 

“ How did you find that out ?” asked the artist. 

“ I have been to the police office, and examined the 
record of strangers for two months back. They know me 
there, and I could spend a week or more in searching over 
their records, if I felt like it ; but I didn’t think it necessary 
to go any further back than that.” 

He pursued his search as they went northward in every 
large city that they passed through, and always with the 
same result. He said he should not take the trouble to do 
so, as he expected to find his clew in Paris, but as it in- 
volved no loss of time, and he had to spend the hours of de- 
lay on their journey in one way or another, that was as good 
a way as any. Besides, it would be some satisfaction to 
know that he had not passed right alongside of his game and 
left it behind him. 

In this way they proceeded until they reached Chalons. 
Pince had made this city his first objective point, as he had 
said he would like to make some inquiries of the mother- 
superior of the convent in which Elenor Weston had 
boarded. It was on the direct road to Paris, and their visit 
to the convent only involved a few hours’ delay. 

They soon discovered the convent of which they were in 
search, and the mother-superior, a handsome, benevolent- 
looking old lady, answered all their questions without hesita- 
tion. 

She expressed a great deal of sorrow when told that there 
was good reason to believe that her former boarder. Miss 
Weston, was not being fairly dealt by, but said she had 
considered herself in duty bound to obey the mother’s in- 
structions with regard to her daughter’s letters — her French 
education accounted for that. Mrs. Tulip had told her 
that Miss Weston was not yet of age, and it was only a whim 
of hers — for which there was no reasonable excuse, except 
that she was not quite right in her mind — to live away from 
her legal guardians for a time ; and, indeed, the young lady 
was very melancholy during her stay at the convent — suffi- 
cient excuse for believing the mother’s accusation of mental 
aberration. 

When questioned as to the place to which she had for- 
warded Miss Weston’s letters, she answered Paris. 

” Do you remember the exact address, madame ?” asked 
Pince. 

” I can tell you in a moment, monsieur,” she replied, and 
left the room. ^Vhen she returned she held between her fin- 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE, 3^7 

gers a slip of paper, which she handed to Monsieur Pince. 
He looked at it, shrugged his shoulders, and slipped it into 
his waistcoat pocket. 

Thanking the good lady for her kind condescension, they 
left her ; and as they drove back towards Chalons, Monsieur 
Pince showed his companion the slip of paper he had re- 
ceived from her. 

Monsieur Grandpre^ Place del , Paris ^ ’ was writ- 

ten on it. 

Alford uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Monsieur 
Pince laughed. 

“You see how it is ?“ said the latter. “ Monsieur Grand- 
pre is now our objective point. He is the sun around which 
we little planets — Monsieur and Madame Tulip, Made- 
moiselle Weston, Monsieur Yorke, Pince, and you yourself. 
Monsieur Alford, revolve ; and if I am not much mistaken 
there will be what your astronomers call an osculation before 
very long/’ 

Arrived in Paris, Monsieur Pince took his compagnon de 
voyage to very comfortable quarters, in which he installed 
him and then left him, telling- him if he did not see him in 
two or three days he need not be uneasy. 

Alford passed his time pleasantly enough ; visiting the 
Louvre, Versailles, and promenading the boulevards, until 
Monsieur Pince’s return. 

“ Well,” said Pince, when he at last made his appearance, 
“ you have enjoyed yourself, I hope ; but how could you do 
otherwise in Paris, and it is folly for me to ask the ques- 
tion. ’’ 

“ Yes,’’ replied Alford, “ I have enjoyed myself as much 
as was possible under the circumstances.’’ 

“ Ah !’’ said Pince, “ I have no doubt of it. Paris is the 
first city in the world — for every thing that js worth any thing 
— and none but stupid fellows without brains ever say 
otherwise. But come, now to business. We must change 
our quarters ; and I fear the change will not be much to 
your liking, as we will have to move to a poor part of the 
city, out of sight of these beautiful surroundings we have 
here.’’ 

“ Whatever you think best. Monsieur Pince,” replied Al- 
ford, “ will suit me, so long as it helps us on our way to the 
object we have in view.’’ 

‘ ‘ All right, ’ ’ said the other ; * ‘ the carriage is at the door 
so let us go.’’ 


328 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


CHAPTER XV. 

ADVENTURES OF ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE CON- 
TINUED. 

The Place del was a little triangular space towards 

which three narrow streets conv^erged. It was in a poor 
quarter of Paris, and those who were not initiated into the 
secrets of Monsieur Grandpre’s business wondered how he 
had made so much money there ; for it was well known that 
he was rich. 

His ostensible business was selling stationery and little 
fancy articles of various descriptions ; but his stock of goods 
had a musty, dusty look, that would lead one to suppose he 
had had it a very long time, and that it had not been much 
handled. The truth was, he never sold any thing beyond a 
few pens and a little ink and paper, and his neighbors, who 
were well aware of that fact, shrugged their shoulders and 
said Monsieur Grandpre must have some other business, in 
some other part of the city ; but that assumption could 
hardly be reconciled with the fact that he seldom left his 
shop in the Place, 

But Monsieur Grandpre did have another business, which 
was the lending of money at usurious interest on good secu- 
rity ; but as his business in that line was transacted through 
an agent who lived in another part of the city, his neighbors 
had never been able to penetrate the mystery of his financial 
success. 

The security which he generally took consisted of valuable 
jewels, and the secret police had on one or two occasions 
got upon the track of stolen gems that had found their way 
into his possession ; but Monsieur Grandpre was too old a 
fox to be caught even by so cunning a hunter as Pince, and 
he had outwitted the ministers of the law in every instance 
in which he had come in contact with them. 

The principal weapon he employed in dealing with such 
persons as he knew were hunting for evidence to criminate 
him, was apparent frankness. And they knew all the time 
that his frankness was only apparent ; but what could they 
do ? He never denied having valuable jewels in his posses- 
sion — claiming that they came to him in a legitimate way — 
and he never hesitated to open the vault in which he kept 
them, displaying them with a look of pride, well knowing 
that those sought for were not there. 

Such was Monsieur Grandpre, in whose neighborhood 
Monsieur Pince had taken lodgings. The past few days 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR RINCE, 


329 

had been employed by the latter in rendering those lodgings 
comfortable, and making certain inquiries that he deemed 
necessary previous to beginning active operations. 

The ex-detective had selected his base of operations with 
the skill of an able general — not too near to the enemy, but 
so as to overlook his camp, and observe, while unobserved, 
all his movements. He was now seated at a window, the 
curtain of which was partially drawn, watching the old gen- 
tleman through a powerful lorgnette, while Alford sat at a 
table writing. 

“ This seems like prison life,'* he was saying in his letter 
to Oliver, “ in every thing except the luxurious furniture by 
which I am surrounded — and which seems out of place in 
such a dwelling — and the fare, which is most excellent. 
Monsieur Pince is a true Parisian in his taste for good cook- 
ery and fine wines, and has employed an artiste de la cuisine^ 
who serves us in the very best style of Parisian art.” 

” Well,” said Pince, as he saw the writer fold his letter 
and insert it in an envelope, ” have you finished writing ?” 

” Yes,” replied the other, ” and I am sorry that I have, 
for now I don’t know what to do with myself.” 

” Wait,” said the Frenchman ; and going to the door he 
called, ” Susanne !” 

In a few minutes the clamping sound of sabots was heard 
on the staircase, and then the chink of silver accompanied 
by a few whispered words from Pince. When the woman 
was gone, Pince came back into the room, and seating him- 
self at the table, took up a pen. ” Now,” he said, ” for 
scene the first — act primo.” Rapidly writing off a few 
lines, he handed them to Alford to read. 

" Mr. Phillip Yorke. _ “Paris,— . 

” Dear Sir : If you will meet me in this city in the 
course of six or eight days, I will impart to you some news 
of great import to yourself and sister. It will prove much 
to your and her advantage to learn what I can tell you ; and 
I doubt not that you will gladly accord me the desired in- 
terview. 

” Of course I shall expect to be paid for the trouble I 
have taken in your interest ; but the amount of remunera- 
tion we will agree upon when we meet. 

” When you arrive in Paris — that is, supposing you are 
not at present in the city — you will hear of me at Monsieur 
Grandpre’s, Place del . 

Yours to command, 

” William Simpson.” 


330 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


‘‘ What is the object of this letter ?'* asked Alford, as his 
companion proceeded to inclose it in an envelope and ad- 
dress it. 

“ My first object,” was the reply, ” is to get Monsieur 
Yorke out of our way, in case he should be anywhere in the 
neighborhood of the place to which we will be going in a 
few days ; my second object you will understand soon with- 
out any explanation.” 

As he ceased speaking, the sound of the sabots was again 
audible, and then there was a knock at the door. 

” Ah, Susanne !” said Monsieur Pince, who answered the 
knock, ” merci ;” and he returned with his hands full of 
journals, which he deposited on the table. 

” Now, monsieur,” he said, “you can amuse yourself 
with these. I don’t like to keep you shut up here ; but it 
wouldn’t do for so respectable a looking gentleman to be 
seen going in and out of a place like this : it would excite 
suspicion, and Monsieur Grandpre would be the first person 
to notice it.” 

While they were looking over the journals, there came an- 
other knock at the door. This time Pince did not go to the 
door, but told the knocker to come in ; and a tall, raw- 
boned, swarthy fellow, with a heavy black mustache, 
entered. 

“ Bon jour^ messieurs^'" he said, giving a military salute. 

''Bon jour^ Justin^" said Monsieur Pince. “What 
news ?’ ’ 

“ They are none of them in Paris, monsieur.” 

“ Nor its environs ?” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Have they been in Paris within the last six months ?” 

“ One,” replied Justin, holding up his index finger. 
“ Monsieur Yorke was here in the latter part of the sum- 
mer. ’ ’ 

‘ ' Did you find out in what direction he travelled when he 
went away ?’ ’ 

“ No, monsieur : you did not so instruct me.” 

“ Very well, it makes no difference. Now, Justin, I want 
you to take this letter- — you see it is addressed to Monsieur 
Yorke — to old Grandpre. He is in his shop now,” taking 
up his lorgnette, and looking through the window. “ I 
want you to give the letter to him, and then notice what he 
does with it : you can find some excuse to hang about the 
shop until he has disposed of it.” 

Tre bien., monsieur :” and Justin departed on his errand. 
In about half an hour he returned. 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR FINCE, 33 1 

“ Well, Justin V' queried Monsieur Pince. 

“ I delivered the letter, monsieur, and then pretended to 
be attracted by the contents of a little show-case on the 
counter — looking particularly at some penknives, one of 
which I bought, for the sake of appearances/' 

“ Ah, good, Justin ! I knew you were no fool. And ? — ” 

‘‘ And while I was examining the penknives — which 
Monsieur Grandpre took out of the show-case at my request 
— I watched the old gentleman's movements out of the cor- 
ner of my eye — you know how it's done, monsieur." 

“ Yes, yes, I know very well ; and it isn't every one can 
do it without being detected by a suspicious person. Go on. " 

When he came to wait on me he laid the letter down on 
his desk, and while I was looking at the knives, he went 
back, and picking it up, examined it very closely, after 
which he wrote something on it and put it in a pigeon-hole 
— a set of which contrivances is fitted into the shelves be- 
hind the counter." 

" Were the pigeon-holes numbered or lettered ?" 

" They were lettered, monsieur ; and the one he put the 
letter into was lettered R — it seemed strange to me that he 
should put a document addressed to Yorke into a pigeon- 
hole marked R, but these old fellows have a curious way of 
doing things anyhow." 

" I understand," said Pince. Any thing more ?" 

"Yes, monsieur, the pigeon-hole R is the third to the 
right as you stand in front of the counter, on the second row 
from the bottom/’ 

"You are particular, Justin." 

" It is best to be so, monsieur." 

"Yes, I know that ; and you are quite right. But now 
tell me : how high is this set of pigeon-holes placed ?" 

" Just high enough for him to reach by standing on his 
toes, and he is a very tall old man. ’ ' 

" Then I would be obliged to stand on a chair to do it." 

" Or the counter, monsieur," said Justin, smiling. 

" Just so," said Pince musingly. " That will do for the 
present, Justin. I will need your services again this after- 
noon, perhaps." 

" Very well, monsieur." 

" By the way, Justin," cried the ex-detective, as the other 
was disappearing through the door, " how came you to be 
so long gone ?" 

" I thought it best not to come straight here when I left 
Monsieur Grandpre' s, so I went down the other street and 
came round." 


332 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


“ Ah ! you will make a very good detective some day, 
Justin. I see that. Adieu.** 

“ Thanks, monsieur ; adieu.** 

Alford could not quite comprehend the drift of these 
manoeuvres ; bat supposing that Monsieur Pince understood ! 
what he was about, he said nothing. 

“ It has just occurred to me,’* said the Frenchman some 
time after his emissary’s departure, “ that we may meet with i 
a serious obstacle even after we have found the young lady.” ’ 

” What is that ?” asked Alford, startled by the sudden 
ness of the proposition. 

” An old woman,” replied the other, with a serio-comic 
face ; ” but a very formidable old woman : I believe the 
English call her Mrs. Grundy, or something of that sort.” 

‘‘ Explain yourself,” said Alford, with a puzzled look. ' 

” Why, the young lady may object to running away from 
her mother accompanied by only two men — even if one is 
her affianced husband — and such an act on her part would 
certainly create a great scandal.” 

There was certainly good reason to expect to encounter 
some such difficulty with a woman of Elenor Weston’s char- 
acter ; but the fact was, the young artist had set out with j 
the determination to find her, wherever she might be, and i 
had never given a thought as to what he was to do after he I 
had succeeded in his primary object. * 

” I have never once thought of that,” he said, after a few ; 
minutes’ musing. ” In truth, it never occurred to me that i 
it would be necessary for her to run away with me at all : 
my idea was, when we shall have found her, to go boldly to 
her mother and demand her as my affianced wife.” 

” And do you think the mother has been keeping her out 
of your way all this time just to give her to you in the end ? 

If you do, my dear sir, you know very little of womankind. 
One of these worldly, selfish women indurates as she grows 
old, and the tears of the unhappy daughters whose wills she 
desires to control fall on her like rain on a block of granite. 
But come, we must be prepared for every contingency. It 
will put you to some extra expense ; but it may save you in 
the end from the loss of all the money you have spent and 
may still spend. However, the loss of money is nothing, I 
know, to a young man with such an object in view as you 
have — ha, ha ! — but as much can’t be said of the disappoint- 
ment, eh ?” 

” You are quite right. Monsieur Pince ; I should not 
mind the loss of the money nearly so much as I should mind 
the disappointment. * * 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR FINCE. 


333 


‘‘ Ah, well ! we will try and save both. Let me think 
awhile.” After about half an hour spent in thinking, the 
thinker snapped his fingers two or three times, as Alford had 
often seen him do before when he had hit upon an expedi- 
ent that suited him. ” I have it,” he said, ” I have it;” 
and his companion looked at him inquiringly. ” The last 
time I was in Paris,” he continued, ” I met an old lady, 
whose acquaintance I made several years ago in my official 
capacity. She is a very respectable person, and was the 
wife of a merchant. Her husband came to grief in his busi- 
ness, and committed suicide, leaving her — the coward — to 
fight the battle of disappointment and poverty alone. She 
has no children, and told me when I last saw her that she 
had a great desire to go to America, where she thought she 
might do something as a teacher of our language. I don’t 
think it probable that she has yet gone there, and if she has 
not, you can make your own arrangements with her. You 
can engage her as companion to the young lady, and she can 
accompany us when we leave Paris. You will have to ex- 
plain every thing very clearly to her, for she will have some 
compunctions about coming between mother and daughter — 
we French have our own peculiar notions about such mat- 
ters, you know.” 

He sat down to the table — he had been walking up and 
down the room while he talked — and wrote a short note 
which he addressed to ” Madame Trudeau, No. — Rue de 
Rivoli.” 

“Now,” he said, “take this to the address. Monsieur 
Alford, and if the lady is not still there, find out where she 
has moved to. I could have sent Justin to inquire before- 
hand ; but you will probably like a stroll abroad, and if 
you do not return until after nightfall — any time between 
then and daylight to-morrow morning — it will be all the 
better.” 

Alford was truly glad of this opportunity to get out of 
doors, and hastened with alacrity upon his mission. 

Madame Trudeau rented apartments in the Rue de Rivoliy 
which she sub-let to strangers visiting the city. She was at 
home, and in a few moments after he had asked for her — 
having sent the introductory letter in by the servant who 
admitted him — our artist found himself in the presence of a 
fine, stately old lady, who received him with kindly dignity. 

“Monsieur Pince tells me in his note, monsieur,” she 
said, folding the note up while she was speaking, “ that you 
have a proposition to make to me, the acceptance of which 
on ray part will place it in my power to accomplish an ob- 


334 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


ject that I have had in view for some time past, and which 
I once spoke to him about/' 

“ It is true, madame," replied the young man with some 
hesitation, “ that I have a proposal to make to yourself — or 
to some one else, should you be disinclined to accept— but 
it is of so delicate a nature that I hardly know how to set it 
before you in a light that will not excite your national preju- 
dices against it." 

" Well, monsieur," said the lady, after waiting a little 
while for her visitor to proceed, and smiling at his evident 
embarrassment. The fact was, Alford had expected to find 
in Madame Trudeau a respectable bourgeoise ; but this lady 
looked like she might be one of the noblesse., and he 
felt some delicacy about approaching her with the offer he 
had to make. " Really, madame, " he said, " I am at a loss 
—excuse my embarrassment ; but — " Then it occurred to 
him that the best thing he could do would be to tell her the 
whole story of his love, and trust to her sympathy. He 
could not have chosen better. As a preliminary he asked 
if she would have any objections to listening to a love-story. 

She laughed pleasantly, and said, " Did you ever meet a 
lady, old or young, monsieur, who had any such objec- 
tions ?" 

Thus encouraged, he proceeded with his tale, to which she 
listened with undisguised interest and sympathy. She never 
interrupted him with question or remark ; but when he had 
finished she took his hand in both of hers, and pressing 
them warmly, said, " My dear young friend, though I never 
saw you before to-day, I cannot help telling you how deeply 
I feel for you — and the young lady — and if I can do any 
thing to assist you, I will gladly do it. Tell me, now, what 
it is you would require of me ; and if it is in my power to 
aid, rest assured you shall find your confidence has not been 
misplaced." 

He told her what he wanted her to do, and offered to pay 
all her expenses from the day she should leave Paris until her 
arrival in America ; besides which he promised to aid her, as 
far as in his power lay, in procuring a situation as teacher 
of French in some female seminary in Baltimore. 

She sat a little while thinking, before giving him an an- 
swer, and then said, " Your offer is certainly a generous 
one, monsieur, and I am very anxious to go to your beauti- 
ful country : en fin., though it is against the usages and 
prejudices of French society to abet a daughter in defying 
the authority of a parent, I think in such a case as this one 
would be justified in doing so, and I accept it." 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 


335 


This matter being so satisfactorily settled, Alford deliv- 
ered Monsieur Pince’s message, and bidding the old lady 
good-day, sallied forth, determined to concentrate as much 
pleasure as possible in the few remaining hours of the day. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

ADVENTURES OF ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE, CON- 
TINUED. 

When Alford returned to his lodgings, Monsieur Pince 
had already retired to his own room. He supposed the 
Frenchman was asleep, and moved about the sitting-room 
softly, so as not to disturb him ; but sleeping or waking, the 
ex-detective’s ears were alive to every sound, and slipping 
on a dressing-gown he came out. 

“ So you have got back,” he said. ” What time is it ?” 

” About one o’clock,” was the reply. 

” Ah ! I think I must have been asleep : sometimes when 
I am engaged on an interesting case I hardly know whether I 
sleep or not.” 

“Perhaps,” said Alford, laughing, “you are like that 
bird — the albatross, I believe it is — which sleeps on the 
wing.” 

“Perhaps so,” replied the other; “but however that 
may be, I know that often when I think I’m asleep, I’m 
wide-awake.” 

“ That’s a curious condition to be in, certainly ; how do 
you account for it ?” 

“ Well, I suppose it is all owing to the force of habit. A 
man who follows the calling of a detective must always be 
on the alert, and from the habit of constant attention to 
every thing — even things which appear to be most trivial, but 
which may, in truth, be of vital importance — his ears learn 
to keep watch while his eyes are asleep : no sound escapes 
them, and any sound that is suspicious, or that comes too 
near, awakes him. At such times I always have a feeling of 
uncertainty as to whether I have been asleep or not.” 

“ I understand,” said Alford. “ You are never wholly 
asleep : only a part of your senses indulge in somnolence at 
a time, so that yours is a sort of double existence.” 

“ Just so : you are a philosopher, monsieur. But tell me, 
how have you enjoyed yourself ?” 

“ Exceedingly.” 


33*5 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ Of course. We are in Paris ; and if there is any pleas- f 
ure in life worth seeking, it is to be found here. And | 
Madame Trudeau — what of her ?” S 

“ She has promised to do what we wish.’’ 

Good. You are satisfied of her respectability, and that 
she may be trusted with the care of a young lady, without 
giving just cause for scandal ?” 

“ She appeared to me to be a thorough gentlewoman.” 

” Yes, so she is. But now, I suppose, you would like to 
go to sleep. To-morrow I will tell you further of my plans. 
Good-night.” 

The next morning after breakfast Monsieur Pince wrote 
another letter. ” Here,” he said, folding it up, ” I have 
written Monsieur Grandpre an invitation to dinner.” 

“To dinner !” repeated Alford in astonishment. 

“ Yes,” replied the Frenchman, laughing, “ but it is not 
an invitation to dine with us. I have asked him to dine 
with a certain Meinheer Klobstack — an Amsterdam diamond 
merchant, with whom I know he has dealings. Meinheer re- 
quests his company to-morrow afternoon at a certain famous 
restaura7tt^ where they will dine together and enter into 
negotiations for the transfer of some precious stones from 
the possession of the Frenchman into that of the Dutch- 
man.” 

“But how about the handwriting?” will he not see at 
once that it is a forgery ?” , 

“ There would be little danger of that, even had I taken 
no precaution to guard against such a contingency. These 
great merchants seldom ever write a business letter — their 
clerks do that for them — and the probability is that mon- 
sieur has never seen meinheer’s handwriting; but for fear 
he might have done so, my invitation is written by the 
Dutchman’s private secretary, who travels with him.” 

“ So you think he’ll go ?” 

“ Certainly ; he’ll go fast enough. If there is one thing 
that Monsieur Grandpre does love, it is a good dinner at 
somebody else’s expense, and he knows the establishment I 
have invited him to can furnish as fine a work of art in that 
line as any place in Paris. I have pandered to his taste in 
that way myself on occasion, and what little information I 
have ever been able to glean from him has been through the 
medium of gastronomy. But I must leave you now to enjoy 
your solitude as pleasantly as you can, while I go and attend 
to the sending of my invitation as it should go — by the mes- 
senger of some first-rate hotel. See ! I made Justin get you 
some books, and if you should want any thing else, you can 


ALFOKD AND MONSIEUR FINCE, 337 

call upon Susanne — she’s a willing girl, but not pretty. 
Au revoir^ monsieur ; au revoir.^' 

At three o’clock the following afternoon Monsieur Pince 
was anxiously watching Monsieur Grandpre’s shop door. 
“ Ah, there he goes at last !” he said. “ What a noble and 
respectable-looking old gentleman he is, to be sure ! One 
would never take him for an old rogue. He has gone to 
meet the great diamond merchant, out of whom he hopes to 
make something more than a good dinner ; but the dinner 
holds the uppermost place in his thoughts Just now, I’ve 
no doubt. Ha, ha ! I’m sorry for him ; for if there is any 
disappointment greater than that we feel when cheated out 
of a good dinner, I’ve got to experience it yet. Now,” he 
added, turning to Alford, and handing him the envelope ad- 
dressed by Mr. Wetherby, within which he had inclosed a 
blank sheet of paper, ” we must try our luck. When we 
enter Monsieur Grandpre’s shop, I will ask you for the let- 
ter — it will look better coming from you, whom the clerk 
will know at once to be a foreigner, than from me. Tell him 
to send it to the gentleman to whom it is addressed, and then 
trust the rest to me.” 

They went out together ; but to Alford’s surprise, instead 
of going at once to the Place^ they sauntered away in the 
opposite direction. He made no remark on this circum- 
stance, and in a few minutes discovered the object of it. 
Turning the first corner they came to, they found Justin 
waiting for them with a carriage, which they entered, and 
after being driven round to various places by Pince’ s direc- 
tion, were at last landed at the place to which they really 
wished to go. 

The ex-detective had got himself up in the elaborate style 
'of a French dandy, and had inserted a splendid solitaire dia- 
mond pin in his shirt front, and when they entered the shop, 
the clerk, a low-browed, morose-looking fellow, received 
them with some show of civility, which he would probably 
have dispensed with had there been less a look of prosperity 
about them. 

” Good-day, monsieur,” said Pince, lifting his hat ; ” is 
Monsieur Grandpre at home ?” 

” No,” was the response ; ” he has gone to the Rochers 
de Cancale to dine.” The fact of his master having gone to 
one of the best restaurants in Paris to get his dinner, while 
he — the clerk — was left to gnaw his crust in the dingy little 
shop, did not seem to sweeten his naturally brusk temper. 

” Ah ! I am very sorry,” said Monsieur Pince, in the 
politest manner possible ; ” but,” turning to Alford, and 


33 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


speaking to him in French, for the first time since they had 
been together, “ perhaps we may find him there now, mon- 
sieur. But no : on second thoughts I would not like to dis- 
turb him at so important an hour in one’s life as the dinner 
hour : no, no ; I should not like to be disturbed at such 
a time myself.” 

” What do you wish with Monsieur Grandpre ?” asked 
the clerk. 

” This American gentleman would like to get the address 
of a countryman of his. Where is the letter, monsieur ?’ ’ to 
Alford ; ” let me see it.” Alford handed him the letter, and 
he read the superscription aloud: ” Meester Pheelleep 
Yorke — do you know any thing of him ?” 

“Yes, I know of him,” was the reply. 

“ Ah ! I am glad to hear that ; you can furnish this gen- 
tleman with his address, then.” 

“ No, I cannot. You can leave the letter here, if you 
like ; and it will be sent to him.” 

“ But, monsieur, this letter must go at once — by the first 
post — it is very important ; is it not so, Monsieur Alford ?” 

“ Of the utmost importance,” replied Alford, taking the 
cue. “ I would not like to have it delayed, an hour if pos- 
sible.” 

“ I canT help that,” was the dogged rejoinder of the 
clerk. “ I will post the letter as soon as 1 can, and that is 
all I can do for you.” 

Pince put on a perplexed look, and addressing Alford, said, 
“ What will you do about it, monsieur ? I know that you are 
anxious that this letter should go off by to-night’s mail, and 
this gentleman, his employer being absent, will not be able 
to post it in time — in fact,” looking at his watch, “ it only 
lacks one hour to the time when the evening mails all 
close.” He seemed to ponder the matter in his mind for 
awhile, looking at the letter thoughtfully all the time, and 
then said, “ Perhaps we had better go to the Rochers de 
Cancale^ after all. I am a little acquainted with Monsieur 
Grandpre, and know him to be a polite, accommodating old 
gentleman” — at these words the shadow of a smile swept 
over the clerk’s face — “ and I have no doubt but that he 
will give us Meester Yorke’s address.” 

“ You may go if you like,” said the clerk ; “ but I know 
very well he will send you back here, to leave the letter with 
me.” 

“ Well, we can but try,” said Pince, moving toward the 
door, and Alford followed him, wondering what he was go- 
ing to do. At the door he held his companion in con versa- 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 


339 


tion — speaking in an undertone-^^for a few minutes, and 
then returned to the clerk. “ After all/' he said, “ mon- 
sieur thinks we had better leave the letter with you if you 
will assure him that it shall go by to-morrow’s mail." 

The clerk took the letter without vouchsafing a word in 
reply to his countryman, and as if to show that he understood 
his business, retired to a desk in the corner of the shop, 
wrote something on it, and then deposited it in the pigeon- 
hole of which Justin had spoken. 

While he was doing this, Monsieur Pince again walked to 
the door, pretending to pay no attention to his actions. 
He spoke to the driver of the carriage, and then engaged 
Alford in conversation for a few minutes, during which he 
gave the young man a few words of instruction with regard 
to his next move. " Oui^ monsieur; he said aloud in 

conclusion, and then turning about he addressed the clerk. 
" By the way," he said, " Monsieur Grandpre had some 
time ago two or three very passable diamond rings that he 
wished to sell : has he got them yet ? or — however, I sup- 
pose it is of no use to ask you about such matters : Mon- 
sieur Grandpre is too prudent to intrust that portion of his 
business to a clerk." 

The fellow made no reply to this insinuation, and though 
a flash of savage anger shone in his eyes, he contented him- 
self with asking Pince, with a suppressed growl in his voice, 
who told him that his uncle possessed any such rings. 

" Ah !" said Pince, elevating his eyebrows, " I didn’t 
know that you were Monsieur Grandpre’s nephew. I beg 
your pardon ; for had I known it, I should not have said 
what I did. Of course, being his nephew, he trusts you in 
all things." 

" Yes, in all things," replied the other surlily. 

"As to my knowledge of the rings," continued the ex- 
detective, " that is easily accounted for, since the old gen- 
tleman showed them to me himself ; and I bought this from 
him at the time," pointing to the gem in his shirt front, to 
which he had noticed the eyes of the other wander several 
times since he had been in the shop. 

His attention thus called to it, the clerk now took the lib- 
erty of examining the broach more closely. " You spoke 
of the rings just now as being very passable," he said with 
a slight intonation of contempt in his voice ; ‘‘do you 
know any thing about such matters ?" 

‘‘ Well, a liitle," replied Pince carelessly, as if he didn't 
care to boast just how much he did know. 

With a little sneer on his face, the other went to the back 


340 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


of the shop and disappeared behind a wooden partition, and 
then the noise of a key turning in a lock was heard, when 
immediately an alarm-bell sounded loud and clear some- 
where in the back premises, after which there were one or 
two more turns of the key. 

He was gone but a moment ; but in that moment Mon- 
sieur Pince, with the silent agility of a cat, had leaped upon 
the counter, extracted the letter from the pigeon-hole, and 
first looking at it to see that he had made no mistake, 
dropped it in his pocket. When the man returned, he was 
standing at the door looking about the Place, and talking to 
the carriage driver. 

From the time his Gallic friend had parted with the let- 
ter, Alford had been in a state of mystification, and the dis- 
cussion about diamonds had not helped to clear up his men- 
tal fogginess. Now, however, he was suddenly enlightened, 
and he had not recovered from his astonishment when the 
clerk returned with a fine solitaire ring which he had taken 
the precaution to slip on to one of his fingers. 

‘‘ Ah, monsieur !” said Pince, turning round as soon as he 
heard the other’s footstep, “ you have a fine contrivance 
there to prevent robbery. One has to take such precau- 
tions in this enlightened age, for the thieves, you see, are 
not behind the balance of the world in enlightenment. Ah, 
that is a fine jewel !” he added, as the other without a word 
held up his hand to display the ring. “ You are wise to ex- 
hibit it only in a safe way, for how do you know but that we 
are thieves ourselves.” 

A suspicious look came into the man’s eyes at these 
words, and he instinctively closed his fingers and moved to- 
wards the door. 

Pince chuckled at the alarm his suggestion had created. 
” Oh ! you needn’t be afraid, monsieur,” he said ; ” we are 
not thieves. But pray tell me, what is such a jewel as that 
worth ?” 

” Two thousand francs,” said the other gruffly. 

” Whew !” said Monsieur Pince with a long-drawn whis- 
tle. ” Why, look you, monsieur, that is a little fortune.” 

” I did not ask you to buy it.” 

” That’s true enough ; but my reason for asking you 
about those rings was, that my friend here,” waving his 
hand towards Alford, ” is engaged to be married to a most 
charming lady, and wishes to purchase one to present to her 
— you know a woman in these days don’t think a man worth 
picking up if he can’t give her a solitaire diamond ring. 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR FINCE. 341 

Monsieur is rich, to be sure, and adores mademoiselle ; but 
he does not care to spend a fortune in a ring.” 

” He can do as he pleases,” said the clerk. ” I showed 
you the ring because — ” He seemed to be at a loss to ac- 
count to himself for having done so, and without another 
word went to replace it in its hiding-place. 

” Perhaps we will call when Monsieur Grandpre is at 
home,” Pince called after him, and left the shop with a 
smile of satisfaction on his face, followed by Alford, who 
had been almost a silent spectator of the little drama. 

When they were seated in the carriage, and had gone a lit- 
tle way, the ex-detective took the letter from his pocket, and 
flourishing it over his head, gave two or three snaps of ex- 
ultation with his fingers. “You thought the game was up 
when I delivered this precious document into his keeping, 
didn’t you ?” he asked. 

“ No, 1 didn’t think that exactly ; but I didn’t see how 
you were going to get it back again ; and, after all, it seems 
to have been by a mere chance that you did succeed in do- 
ing so.” 

“ Chance !” said the Frenchman indignantly, “ chance ! 
My dear sir, I leave nothing to chance ; and the man who 
does, no matter what business he is engaged in, will fail as 
surely as the gambler who trusts to luck alone. No, no ; 
never trust to chance : it will chea^you at every turn, and 
many a man has let the best opportunities of his life slip by 
while he waited on it. ’ ’ He turned the ends of the envelope 
so that his companion could see that he had marked each 
end with a spot of ink sufficiently plain to be perceptible 
from a little distance to one who looked especially for them, 
but not so as to be likely to attract the attention of any one 
else. He laughed his peculiar little laugh, and said, “ I 
never lost sight of it after it left my hands ; and if he had 
thrust it under the other letters, I should have known it by 
the mark.” 

“ Then you had every thing planned beforehand ? and the 
trick — ’ ’ 

“ Don’t say trick, monsieur. Trick is an ugly word, and 
savors of gambling hells and politics. Say strategy, manoeu- 
vre, what you will, but not trick ; trick and chance are very 
good company for each other, but are unworthy the consid- 
eration of artists, scientists, and honest men in general.” 

“ Then the manoeuvre of the ring was not an inspiration 
of the moment ?” 

“ No, indeed : all that was part of the business of the 
play, as they say in theatrical affairs. I knew all about that 


342 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


fellow — I took pains to find out. I knew him to be old 
Grandpre’s nephew, and that his uncle trusted him in every- 
thing. I knew him also to be one of those morose, suspi- 
cious fellows, who, though they think themselves very sharp, 
are easily duped, and can be got to do almost any thing by 
piquing their vanity or ill-temper. Had the affair of the 
ring failed — though I had little fear of that — I should have 
been taken suddenly with a palpitation of the heart and 
faintness, and asked for a glass of water, and so got rid of 
him long enough for my purpose. That is an old dodge, 
but a very good one where there is no servant on hand to 
upset your plans ; and I know old Grandpre never keeps 
one — he is afraid of them.” 

” And what about the letter?” asked Alford, convinced 
that Monsieur Pince was the man to carry through any un- 
dertaking he had in hand ; ” what did he write on it ?” 

” Oh ! only the name of some little out-of-the-way-place in 
Austria. I have never heard of it before ; but we will find 
out all about it when we get to Vienna.” 

While they were talking the carriage had been rolling 
steadily along, and it had not occurred to Alford that they 
were a long time in reaching their lodgings. Now he looked 
out of the window and perceived that they were entering a 
better part of the city, and he turned to his companion for 
an explanation. 

” Ah !” said Pince, ” I forgot to tell you that we should 
not return to the abominable hole in which we have been 
living of late : we will go back to our former lodgings. Our 
luggage is all there by this time. Justin was to attend to 
that. ’ ’ 

The next morning, accompanied by Madame Trudeau, 
they started for Vienna. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AUNT POLLY. 

‘‘ Sylvia,” said Oliver to his sister, one day when they 
were sitting together, “ have you noticed how ill Clarissa is 
looking ?” He always called her Clarissa when speaking of 
her to Sylvia. 

“Clarissa is naturally a fragile, delicate creature,” said 
Sylvia, rather evading the question. She had noticed a 


AUNT POLLY, 


343 


change in her friend ; but she had also divined her brother’s 
secret, and did not wish to increase his anxiety. 

“It is not only that she is looking ill,’’ continued the 
brother, “ but she seems to be unhappy ; and sometimes 
when she is with us I feel very certain that her thoughts 
have no connection with what is going on around her. I 
wish I could understand it.’’ 

“ We can’t expect to understand the secret thoughts of 
others,” responded Sylvia : “it would be a great misfortune 
if we. could, for we all have thoughts that we should not like 
to have read like the page of a book. Clarissa was always 
quiet, and quiet people sometimes look unhappy when they 
are really not so.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Oliver ; but a little sigh escaped him, 
in spite of himself, while he said it, and it was evident that 
he was not half satisfied with his sister’s philosophy. He 
sat listening to the sad, sweet voice in the apartments below 
until it had finished the plaintive lament of Linda di Cha- 
mouni, and then he got up and went off to his studio. 

The sound of Clarissa’s singing, with touching pathos, 
one of the sad songs of which she seemed to be so especially 
fond, had induced the young man to betray the anxiety that 
he had long felt, but had hitherto kept to himself ; and as 
he saw that his sister avoided discussing the subject in a 
direct manner, he was sure that she had remarked a greater 
change in her friend than she would acknowledge. 

Sylvia was not left long to ponder over what Oliver had 
said to her, for in a tlitle while he returned, accompanied by 
Mr. Gathwright. 

” See, Sylvy !” he said, ” I have got a letter from Mr. 
Alford. Mr. Gathwright met the banker’s man at the door, 
and took it from him.” 

” I hope you have made yourself the bearer of good news, 
Mr. Gathwright,” said Sylvia, smiling, as she extended her 
hand to their visitor. 

“ I certainly hope so too, Miss Sylvia,” replied Gath- 
wright. He had leaped one little chasm in the space be- 
tween them, at any rate, and had left Miss Maxwell behind 
him forever. 

“ I have not opened the letter yet,” said Oliver, “ and I 
don’t intend to until we are all together. Send Paulina 
down with a message to Miss Clarissa, Sylvy ; she has fin- 
ished her music lesson, and I know she will like to hear it 
read.” 

Paulina, the little maid, was despatched with an invitation 
to Miss Wetherby to attend a private reading party at Mr. 


344 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


and Miss Maxwell’s rooms at once, and in a few minutes 
she appeared with a look of wonder in her earnest gray eyes. 

“ Come, Clara, come sit by me, dear,” said Sylvia, mak- 
ing room for her friend on the lounge where she sat ; ” and 
now, Mr. Nolly, begin at once, and we will try and imagine 
that you are your old namesake reading ‘ The Vicar of 
Wakefield ’ to his friends.” 

The reading of the letter occupied some time. It was the 
one Alford wrote in Paris, and was quite lengthy ; for in it 
he had given a detailed account of his journey, and had 
transcribed some of his conversations with Monsieur Pince, 
as the best way of showing what manner of man he had for 
a compag7ion du voyage. 

” What do you think of my friend Pince ?” asked Gath- 
wright, when Oliver had come to an end. 

” Pie must be an amusing person to travel with,” said 
Sylvia, ” but he does not seem to have accomplished much 
as yet. ” 

” Oh ! you must have patience,” cried the Englishman ; 
” he has but made a beginning.” 

” Yes,” said Oliver ; ” thus far he seems only to have 
been making preparations — laying his plans — and the letter, 
like a serial story, stops at a most interesting period.” 

While they were discussing the probable issue of the ad- 
venture, Sylvia was called out, and in a few minutes re- 
turned, and told Mr. Gathvvright she should expect him to 
stay to dinner, at the same time informing Clarissa that she 
had sent word to her father that she would do the same. 

” Oh ! but, Sylvia,” said the girl, ” I really cannot. I feel 
so ashamed of myself for leaving poor papa to dine alone so 
often.” 

” Nevermind that, dear,” said Sylvia. ” Your papa told 
me he would trust you to me at all times, and expressly said 
he did not mind dining alone — and he is not alone at all, for 
he has Mrs. Gwyn. ” 

‘‘ But Mrs. Gwyn is no company for him.” 

” Perhaps not, but they get along very well together, and 
he is satisfied ; for he told me he never was so happy as 
when you were enjoying yourself with us. So, come, dear, 
don’t make any more objections.” 

Clarissa had nothing more to say ; and they all had a very 
pleasant meal together, after which there was a promenade 
on the Pincio, and the evening was spent at the opera. 

These little social reunions were a common event in their 
lives, and on such occasions Clarissa seemed to be roused 
into a transitory state of happiness. The color came back 


AUNT POLLY. 


345 


to her cheeks and the smile to her lips, and Oliver would 
begin to think that a morbid fancy had taken possession of 
him ; but let the excitement flag for a few minutes, and the 
poor girl would immediately sink back into the state of de- 
pression that had gradually become habitual to her. 

Gathwright sought excuses to multiply these occasions — 
proposing expeditions to this place, that, or t’other — never 
hearing of a church ceremony to be seen, or a little music to 
be heard, but that he insisted upon making up a party, well 
knowing of whom the party would consist ; and he fancied 
he was slowly but surely making his innings, though the ob- 
ject of his desires made no sign that he dared venture to in- 
terpret. 

About this time an aunt of Gathwright* s came to Rome. 
Mrs. Mary Rayburn was a little elderly lady, with a plump 
figure, and one of those sweet, happy faces that we so love 
to see in old ladies, and which always seem pretty, no matter 
how old they are. Her nephew always called her Aunt 
Polly, and the name seemed to fit her somehow, though a 
more aristocratic little lady — in every thing that constitutes 
real aristocracy — it would have been hard to find. 

Mrs. Rayburn was much surprised to see Harold, when, 
having found her name entered on the register of the Hotel 
d' Europe^ he followed close upon the heels of the servant 
who carried his card into her apartments. 

“ Why, Hal I” she exclaimed, making a little jump up to 
kiss him, though he stooped to meet her fond caress, 
“ aren’t you ashamed to take your old aunty so by surprise ? 
Just think what the consequences might have been : you 
might have given me a fit. ” 

“ Did you ever have a fit, Aunt Polly ?” asked Haroid, 
laughing. 

“ If I never did, that’s not to say I mayn’t, you thought- 
less boy.” Mrs. Rayburn still called him a boy, though he 
was nearly forty years of age. “I’m getting old now, and 
sudden shocks are not good for old age.” 

“ Oh, come, aunty ! don’t try to make yourself out an 
antique just because you are in Rome. You are no older 
to-day than you were fifteen years ago.” 

“ Ah ! now you are flattering the old woman, and I know 
you want something of her. However, whatever it is I’m 
certain to find it out in good' time. Tell me, now, how you 
happen to be in Rome, when I thought you were in Afghan- 
istan, Toorkistan, or some other of those outlandish places 
to which you are always flying away, like the wild-goose that 
you are ?” 


346 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


“Well, the truth is, Aunt Polly, “ replied the nephew 
seriously, “I’m rather sick of travelling. I’m getting old 
myself, and I begin to think it’s about time to settle down.” 

The old lady looked into his eyes searchingly for a mo- 
ment, and then broke into a little musical laugh. “ There’s 
something behind all this, Harold,’’ she said; “ you can’t 
deceive an old woman like me, so don’t try. Come, tell me 
what has induced Harold Gathwright to settle down, as he 
calls it — Harold Gathwright, who just now tried to flatter 
his old aunty into the belief that she is still young, and then 
turns round and says he is old himself.’’ 

“ You shouldn’t catch me up in that way,’’ Aunt Polly ; in- 
deed you shouldn’t,’’ said Harold, with a comical twinkle in 
his eyes, which assured her that he would confide in her in 
the end ; “ you see it isn’t fair, and I assure you I am 
really tired — almost broken down, in fact — with this ever- 
lasting going, going, going.’’ 

“ Yes,’’ responded the little lady merrily, “ going, going, 
going ; and now, like the auctioneer’s goods, you are gone : 
isn’t it so, Hal ? Come, my poor tired, broken-down boy, 
tell me all about it.’’ They were sitting on a sofa together, 
and she reached out her plump little hand and softly 
brushed the short, brown curls from his forehead while she 
spoke. 

“Well,’’ said the nephew, leaning forward and kissing 
her on the cheek, “ if you must have it so, you dear old 
aunty, so be it.’’ 

“ So be it !’’ she repeated, with her pleasant little laugh. 
“ Now surely that is an amount of confidence to bestow. 
But, I declare ! the boy is blushing, and I don’t think I’ve 
seen him do that since he was caught kissing Nora Jennings 
when he was sixteen years old.’’ 

“ O aunty !’’ pleaded Gathwright, “ don’t speak of her ; 
she grew up to be perfectly detestable.’’ 

“ So you think,’’ said Mrs. Rayburn. “ But, at any 
rate, you found out, as many another has done, that you 
were wasting your sweets. But the blush explains the ‘ so 
be it,’ Hal, and I’m quite content ; for I know I can trust 
to your good sense and good taste ; and there is nothing I 
have so longed for as to hear that you had met a woman 
who had the power to keep you in one place, if only for a 
little while. But I must see this ‘ so be it,’ Hal.’’ 

“ So you shall, aunty, so you shall, and that right soon,’’ 
replied Harold, getting up as if he were about to go. 

“ Why, what a hurry you are in, to be sure !’’ said his 
aunt ; ‘ ‘ you have been here about five minutes. ’ ’ 


A UNT POLL K. 


347 


“ You must excuse me, my dear Aunt Polly ; but the fact 
is, I have a sort of engagement. I saw your name on the 
hotel register by the merest chance, and thought I would 
just run up and let you know I was still in the civilized 
world.” 

“ Ah, well ! I suppose under the circumstances I can’t 
expect to see much of you ; but I shall be quite content, 
my dear. I was young once myself, and really I didn’t ex- 
pect to see you at all ; so what right have I to complain ?’ ’ 

” Never fear,” replied the nephew, who had taken her 
hand, and was caressing it as fondly as he might have done 
that of a young girl ; ” never fear, you shall see a great deal 
of me — and of — of — ” 

” ‘ So be it, ’ ” suggested the aunt, laughing at his em- 
barrassment. ” You haven’t told me any name yet, you 
know. ” 

” That’s true,” he acknowledged ; ” but you can’t ex- 
pect a fellow to tell every thing at once. But I don’t want 
you to call her ‘ so be it,’ and so I’ll tell you her name. Syl- 
via, aunty ; that’s her name. Good-by.” 

” A very pretty name, as far as it goes,” she called after 
him ; ” but one name is better than none at all. Good-by. 
I suppose this visit is a specimen of what I may expect 
now,” she mused to herself, as she closed the door. ” Ah, 
my poor Hal ! you are quite excusable ; if you had stayed 
here half the day, you could have talked of nothing. Sylvia 
occupies all your thoughts — Sylvia is your world just now ; 
and it was evidently not your intention to tell me any thing 
about her. I suppose you want me to see her and judge of 
her for myself. Perhaps it is best so. Young men are apt 
to bore their friends when they once begin to talk about 
their sweethearts’ perfections — which are not always quite 
so apparent to those who may be forced to hear them dilated 
on — and Harold knows that, I dare say. But I never saw 
the dear fellow so flustered before — and blushing too — at 
his age ! it certainly must be a serious case.” 

Mrs. Rayburn was not doomed to be long left in suspense 
with regard to Sylvia, however, for when Gathwright left 
her he went straight to see the young lady, with a request 
that she would call on his aunt the next day, taking the pre- 
caution to name an hour for the proposed visit, artfully de- 
signing to happen in a few minutes later. 

” May 1 take Clarissa?” asked Sylvia. 

” Most certainly you may,” was the reply : ” my aunt is 
very fond of young people, Miss Sylvia, and will thank you 
for bringing her. ” 


348 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


The next day when Gathvvright happened into his aunt’s 
apartments, he found Mrs. Rayburn entertaining the two 
young ladies in her usual lively way. The old lady gave 
him one sly glance, which told him all he wanted to know, 
and then he glided into the conversation, which lasted about 
half an hour, when the visitors got up to go. - 

I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, dears,” 
said their hostess, kissing them both, ‘‘ and I hope I shall 
see a great deal of you. I will remain in Rome all winter, 
and I shall anticipate a great addition to my pleasure in the 
enjoyment of your society. And I have this truant boy of 
mine to thank for it,” she added, smiling at Harold, who 
looked as happy as any Ifoy might have done under such cir- 
cumstances.” 

” Ah !” he said, when they were gone, ” what do you 
think of her ?’ ’ 

The old lady stood for a moment looking at him with pre- 
tended anger. ” Her !” she said, ” her, indeed ! Was there 
but one person present, sir, that you speak in the singular 
number ? or were you so blind that you couldn’t see the lily 
blooming beside your rose ?” 

” Come, aunty,” remonstrated Harold, ” you know what 
I mean. I’m willing to admit the beauty and the charms of 
the fairy lily ; but what do you think of the queenly rose 

” Ah, well ! since you are so generous to the lily I will tell 
you what I think of your rose. She is perfectly charming, 
and I don’t know when I have been so happy, my dear boy. 
When is it to be ? Don’t put it off too long.” 

” Stop, stop, aunty ; don’t be too fast. I have told you 
nothing yet.” 

” But I can guess, I suppose ; you have left me to guess 
every thing from the beginning.” 

” But you would never guess that Harold Gathwright has 
thus far been afraid to put his standing in that quarter to 
the test. ’ ’ 

“What?” 

“ Yes, my dear Aunt Polly, it is even so. I, whom you 
have always thought as bold as a lion, am become as meek 
as a lamb, and take no shame upon myself to say it. ’ ’ 

“ O Hal ! Hal ! why didn’t you tell me a little more or 
a little less ?” 

“ I told you nothing, aunty ; you guessed, as you just 
now told me. But what’s the matter ?” 

“ Much, much is the matter, sir,” replied his aunt in an 
aggrieved tone. “ I have had a dreadful fall, and you know 
when an old woman falls it is a serious thing.” 


AUNT POLLY, 


349 


Harold jumped upon his feet in an instant, and hastened 
to her side, with a face expressive of the greatest concern. 
** Why, aunty !’' he cried, “ why didn’t you tell me this be- 
fore ? Where have you hurt yourself ?’ ’ 

She put out her hands and pushed him off — as he seemed 
inclined to make a surgical examination, to see if any of her 
limbs were broken — laughing heartily as she did so. He 
looked at her for a moment in amazement, and then broke 
into a laugh himself. “ Oh, I see !” he said. “ What a fool 
lam !” 

“Yes, I have had a fall,“ she continued ; “ but not a 
physical fall. I have been congratulating you on the certain 
prospect of possessing an admirable wife, and myself on 
soon having a niece of whom I might justly feel proud ; and 
I have treated her as if the thing were already settled. 
What will she think of me ?’ ’ 

“ Don’t let that fret you, aunty dear,” said Harold, 
laughing ; “ she is too innocent and ignorant of the world’s 
ways to ascribe your treatment of her — even if it should 
have been a little impressive — to any thing but the natural 
kindness of your good old heart. I told her you were very 
fond of young people, and she’ll just think it’s your usual 
way. ’ ’ 

“I certainly hope she may,’’ said the old lady, “for 
there is nothing that makes a modest girl so shy and difficult 
to approach as the feeling within herself that there are oth- 
ers watching the progress of her virgin affections, and tak- 
ing for granted that of which she herself has as yet but an 
undefined sense. But I trust, my dear boy, that you are 
not going to dilly-dally and let this opportunity slip : it’s 
not like you, Hal.’ 

“ No, no,. Aunt Polly, never fear ; when I think the right 
moment has arrived, I shall seize it, you may be sure.’’ 

“ That’s right ; but don’t put off : there’s nothing so bad 
as procrastination — in love affairs as in all others — and many 
a man has lost the best opportunities of his life by it.’’ 

“ That’s true enough, aunty ; but I didn’t know that you 
had come to be such a philosopher : have you been study- 
ing Plato ?’* 

“ No, I haven’t been studying Plato, my dear ; but we all 
get to be more or less philosophers as we grow old. But 
come, I’m not going to allow you to laugh at me when I’m 
giving you good advice ; and you haven’t told me yet what 
progress you have already made.’’ 

“ Well, the fact is, that’s not very easy to tell,’’ was the 
reply. “ I think I’m getting along very well ; but what you 


350 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


said awhile ago about the difficulty of approaching a modest 
girl — especially if she has seen very little of the world — 
applies in a measure, even without the assistance of our 
friends.” 

” I understand ; only don’t be faint-hearted and magnify 
the difficulty, or some one else will step in and carry off the 
prize before your very eyes ; for she is a prize, and there 
will be plenty to find it out soon.” 

“I’m not faint-hearted, aunty — you ought to know that — 
but I must take my chances. ‘ Chi va piano, va sano.' ” 

Harold said this lightly ; but his aunt’s words awakened 
some anxiety in his mind nevertheless, and he found in a 
little while that she was quite right in her surmises ; for as 
the season advanced Sylvia’s circle of acquaintances 
widened, and he heard her praises sung — particularly by the 
men — with pleasure and at the same time with fear and 
trembling. But he had an invaluable ally in Mrs. Rayburn, 
as we shall see. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

ADVENTURES OF ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE, CON- 
TINUED. 

When the travellers arrived in Vienna they were driven 
to a good hotel in a quiet locality, well known to Monsieur 
Pince, who had had occasion to visit the Austrian capital 
several times before in his professional capacity. 

After breakfast, the day following their arrival, the little 
Frenchman, having started Alford and Madame Trudeau 
off on a tour of sight-seeing, went forth himself in search of 
information, and they did not meet again until dinner-time. 

“ Well, monsieur et madame,'' said Pince, as he tasted his 
soup with the air of a connoisseur ^ “ how have you enjoyed 
yourselves ?” 

They told him where they had been, what they had seen, 
and how much pleased they were with it all. 

“ Ah yes !” he said, “ it is all very fine, I know ; but it is 
not like Paris — eh, madame ?” 

“ No, no, monsieur,” replied the lady, with national 
pride ; ‘ ‘ there is no city like Paris. ’ ’ 

“You are right, madame. This is a vast world we live 
in, and there are many cities and many peoples on it ; but 
Paris is the centre from which all good things flow to them,” 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE, 35 1 

“ And you, Monsieur Pince, said Alford, smiling at the 
national vanity of his two companions, “ what have you 
been doing ?” 

“ I — yes — of course I must tell you where I have been, 
and what I have discovered : it will interest you. Well, I 
have not been to the Esterhazy, nor the Leichstenstein, nor 
the Belvidere on the top nor the one at the bottom ; but I 
have been to the police-office, where we do not go to study 
pictures, but Nature herself.’’ 

“ Did you find out any thing there, monsieur ?” 

“Yes, I found out something that puzzled me consider- 
ably. ’ ’ 

“ Puzzled you ! I thought you were never puzzled ?’’ 

Monsieur Pince laughed. “ No man is infallible,’’ he said. 
“ But I will tell you what puzzled me : it was the expression 
of a man’s face.’’ 

“ Oh ! that’s not a very uncommon thing to happen.’’ 

“No, not in ordinary life ; but it is in mine. I’ll ex- 
plain. I am well acquainted with one of the higher officials 
of the police here, and I called on him this morning. After 
talking with him on various subjects for a while, I thought I 
would ask him for the information of which I had really 
come in quest ; that was, if he knew of an American by the 
name of Tulip, and if he had recently been in Vienna. All 
strangers are known to the police authorities of Vienna, of 
course, cind I knew if the man had been or still was here, 
my friend could tell me ; but 1 never expected that the mere 
mention of a name would produce such a marked effect. 
I could not understand the expression that flitted across his 
face for just a moment — he is an old hand, and does not 
often betray himself — unless it was that Tulip is a suspected 
person, and under surveillance. But in that case, it seems 
to me, he would have asked me some questions about him, 
and been glad of any information I could give him. In- 
stead of doing that, however, he appeared to study awhile, 
and then told me that the gentleman had been in Vienna only 
a short time ago, but is no longer here. When I asked if 
he knew in what direction he had gone, he pretended not to 
hear me, and hastily changed the subject of conversation ; 
and, as I told you, I was puzzled.” 

“ Yet, perhaps you were right in your conjecture. Every 
American is just now an object of suspicion in the Austrian 
dominions, owing to our sympathy for the Hungarians.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Pince ; but he did not seem quite 
satisfied with that solution of the problem nevertheless. 
“Monsieur Yorke has been here,” he continued, “and 


352 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Started for Paris this morning, and I have no doubt but that 
it is the letter from Mr. William Simpson which is taking 
him there.” 

” Then he must have been at the place to which the letter 
was addressed.” 

” Certainly. And I have found out all about that place : 
it is a little town situated about twenty miles from Weis- 
kirch, through which the railway to Breslau passes. I have 
made diligent inquiry, and I am satisfied that Mrs. Tulip 
and her daughter are not in Vienna, though Monsieur Tulip 
is frequently here ; for I saw his name registered several 
different times at one hotel. He seems to come and go 
often ; and I confess I am puzzled about him.” 

” What will you do ?” asked Alford. 

” I have been thinking over that, and have concluded to 
go to Weiskirch to-night. You and Madame Trudeau, 
monsieur, can remain here and enjoy yourselves until my 
return. I shall not be long away.” 

So it was arranged, though Alford in his anxiety would 
have liked to have accompanied him. This, however. Mon- 
sieur Pince strenuously objected to, insisting that he must 
go alone, now that he was about to approach the 'enemy’s 
camp. ” No, no,” he said, ” that would never do. Should 
you happen to meet monsieur or madame or mademoiselle 
there would be a premature explosion, and probably the 
failure of my plan altogether ; whereas I might meet them 
all at every turn, and even speak to them, and they would 
be none the wiser, they would hardly guess that I was a 
bird-catcher, hovering around their nest, and preparing to 
rob it. No — you give me a little billet ta mademoiselle, and 
I promise you, if I find her — as I have not the slightest 
doubt I shall — that she shall read it before I return. But 
you must stay quietly here in Vienna, monsieur.” 

So that night the indefatigable Frenchman took the Bres- 
lau train, which he left on its arrival at Weiskirch. 

He found there was a post-road between Weiskirch and 
the little town to which he was going, and that a rude sort 
of carriage drawn by two sturdy ponies carried the mail 
to the latter three times a week, bringing back the return 
mail on the alternate days. Fortunately he had struck upon 
a day when the post left Weiskirch, and he hastened to en- 
gage a place in the vehicle. Unnecessary haste he found 
when the hour of departure arrived, and he took the uncom- 
fortable seat for which he had paid, as he was the only pas- 
senger. 

ddie road was a rough one for a post-road — it passed over 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCR. 


353 


a rugged country near to the foot of a range of mountains, 
that rose black and forbidding on this cloudy day, close at 
hand — and as the ponies plodded slowly along, Monsieur 
Pince had plenty of time to commune with himself on the 
situation. 

“ Aha he muttered, looking out of the carriage win- 
dow at the gloomy landscape, “ this is about what I ex- 
pected. Mademoiselle has been inveigled into this horrible 
region, out of the reach of her friends, and is, in some sort, 
a prisoner. Yes, I’m sure of that ; for Monsieur Yorke 
would never stay here unless he had some especial object in 
view. While the other is away, he keeps guard and dees his 
courting. Ha, ha ! I see it all, messieurs, ’Tis plain, plain ; 
and Monsieur Pince is in his dotage if he can’t outwit you 
when he has once found you. I suppose, since Yorke is 
gone, the other will be on hand. Well, what then ?” and he 
snapped his fingers contemptuously this time. “ He may 
be a stupid old fool or otherwise — I have never seen him — 
but be he ever so sharp he is no match for me. Ta, ta, 
monsieur ; you had as well say good-by to your pretty 
prize. Pince is on the scent.” 

He laughed softly to himself, and as he journeyed along a 
curious smile every now and then lit up his nutty-looking 
face — the shadows of thoughts that were passing through his 
mind. 

Arrived at the straggling little town, he dismounted at the 
only inn, and ordered dinner. He had not been there long 
when he was visited by a police official — who examined his 
passport, and found it all correct — asked a few questions, 
which were answered satisfactorily in very bad German, and 
then left him to the enjoyment of an execrable dinner and 
an excellent bottle of Hungarian wine. 

After dinner Monsieur Pince took a stroll through the town. 
He went to the post-office, and inquired for letters, though 
he expected none ; but it gave him an opportunity to scrape 
acquaintance with the postmaster, who, as it happened, was 
just at that time trying to learn French, and as soon as he 
found he had a Frenchman to deal with, commenced to 
practise on him, producing pretty much the same effect on 
him that ambitious souls who undertake to learn the clario- 
net produce on their hearers. 

Monsieur Pince, though stunned and almost terrified by 
the Austrian’s first French phrase, resisting the inclination 
to clap his hands over his ears and run for it, listened 
patiently, and by pretending to understand when he didn’t, 
managed, before he left, to get the hang of his new acquaint- 


354 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


ance’s peculiar idiom, so that he really could comprehend 
him in a measure. He was quick to perceive that the post- 
master’s ambition to learn French might prove a fortunate 
circumstance for him, and congratulated himself as he 
hastened back to the inn “ to heal the blows of sound ” with 
another bottle of that excellent Hungarian wine. 

The next day he paid another visit to the post-office, after 
having taken a thorough survey of the town and its envi- 
rons. He had discovered that there was but one building 
of any pretensions in the neighborhood, and that stood a lit- 
tle way out of the town. It dominated over the town itself 
and all surrounding houses pretty much as the manor-house 
dominates over villages and their vicinage in England. 

“ There is where they live, or I am very much mistaken,’' 
he had said to himself ; and I suppose Monsieur Yorke 
stays there as a guest, for I have found out he doesn’t stay 
at the inn, though he spends much of his time there.” 

The postmaster, who was laughing and talking with the 
official who had examined Pince’s papers, welcomed him 
gladly in horrible French, looking at his companion 
proudly while he delivered himself of his spoken hiero- 
glyphs. The Frenchman gave him all the encouragement 
necessary, by pretending to understand every word he at- 
tempted to say, and in a few minutes the police officer 
strolled away. 

” Ah !” said the postmaster, looking after his friend with 
some contempt, ” he has gone. He does not like to listen 
to a language he doesn’t understand.” 

” I suppose not,” said Pince ; ” but it is not everybody 
who understands French as you do, monsieur.” 

‘‘ No, indeed ” replied the other vainly, ” though madem- 
oiselle up there,” pointing in the direction of the big house 
Pince had been thinking of all the morning, ” pretends she 
can’t understand a word I say. You are different, mon- 
sieur ; for you understand me perfectly. But you are a 
gentleman, and she is but a servant, so that makes all the 
difference.” Monsieur Pince did understand him tolerably 
well, for the day before he had made a special study of this 
peculiar language, which was neither his own nor the Aus- 
trian’s, and had managed, in a measure, to master it. 

” Mademoiselle !” he said ; ” who is she ? Have you any 
French people living about here ?” 

” Sht — yes, she is French ; but she is only the servant of 
the people who live in the castle ; you probably have seen 
it, monsieur.” 

” No,” replied the Frenchman, shaking his head, and he 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR FINCE, 355 

began to think the castle must have escaped his notice ; * ‘ no, 
I’ve seen no castle.” 

” Oh ! it is not a castle now,” said the other, ” though we 
call it so, because there was a castle there once ; but that 
went to ruin, and they took the stones to build that big 
house over the hill there.” 

” Ah ! I saw that ; it is quite a large house, but rather 
gloomy looking. ” 

“Yes, I suppose you would call it gloomy ; but there is 
a beautiful lady lives there, nevertheless.” 

“ Is she French ?” asked the other, without any particular 
show of interest, though his veins were throbbing with sup- 
pressed excitement. 

“ No, oh no ; she is an American, or English — I don’t 
know exactly which — but she is beautiful as an angel, I 
know that, for she often comes here to post her letters — 
poor thing.” 

“ Why do you say poor thing ? You tell me she is very 
beautiful.” 

“ Oh ! beauty isn’t every thing, you know ; and with her 
there is something wrong here,” touching his head, “ and 
her letters are all returned to madame, her mother.” 

“ What ! are you allowed to deliver the letters that come 
to your office to any other than the person to whom they are 
addressed, or to give them up to any one who may demand 
them ?” 

“ We have to obey orders, monsieur ; and monsieur, the 
father, is in the employment of the government, and such 
are his orders.” A new light burst on the ex-detective at 
this moment ; but he had been too long accustomed to con- 
trol his facial muscles to betray himself now. “ I under- 
stand,” he said indifferently. 

“ Yes, you understand — in part,” replied the other, a 
tone of indignation creeping into his voice, “ but you do 
not understand altogether. It’s a shame — a perfect shame, ’ ’ 
sinking his voice almost to a whisper, and looking around 
suspiciously. Monsieur Pince looked at him inquiringly. 
The other continued, still in a suppressed and indignant 
voice : “ There’s my friend Johann, the officer who has just 
left us, has been an officer of the government all his life, 
and yet he, like myself, is subject to the orders of this man 
— this foreigner — who only came among us a short while 
ago ; and he lives in a grand house, while poor Johann has 
to put up with a hut — a dog’s kennel one might almost 
say. ’ ’ 

“That does indeed seem hard,” said Monsieur Pince. 


356 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“But why is it? What is this man, that every one here 
seems to be subject to his orders ?“ 

“ Hush-sh,“ said the other, touching his lips with his 
fingers, and looking around cautiously, while he still spoke 
in a whisper, bringing his mouth close to the ear of his lis- 
tener ; “ hush ! He is one of the secret police — he is a spy.” 

This time Monsieur Pince, in spite of his years of school- 
ing, was unable to entirely control himself : he gave a little 
start. Shrewd as he was, it had never occurred to him that 
an American — and he had no doubt as to the identity of the 
man of whom the postmaster was speaking and Tulip — could 
be serving the Austrian Government in such a capacity. 
This accounted for the expression that had puzzled him so 
in the face of his official friend in Vienna. 

“ Yes,” continued the loquacious and indignant postmas- 
ter, “ he is a government spy, and he has now gone, Johann 
tells me, to look after some American naval men in 
Trieste. ” 

‘ ‘ Parbleu r ' thought Monsieur Pince, as he walked to- 
wards the inn, “ who would — who could have imagined it ? 
I have been sharp enough to track him, but I didn’t know 
what sort of animal it was I was after ; it is like going for 
a fox and finding a jackal. Eh bien ! I am satisfied. The 
jackal is away, and there is only a Frenchwoman to deal 
with. Ha, ha ! a Frenchwoman ! I know how to manage 
her ; just get hold of the thread end of her vanity, and you 
can wind or unwind her at will. 1 will make mademoi- 
selle’s acquaintance this afternoon.” 

After partaking of a substantial lunch. Monsieur Pince 
started for the castle. He had taken especial pains in 
arraying himself for this expedition, and his diamond 
brooch sparkled brilliantly in the midst of a dark-colored 
silk cravat that encircled his neck. He was well acquainted 
with the general character of his countrywomen, and knew 
that a man, unless he were well dressed, stood little chance 
of winning a glance, much less a pleasant word, from one of 
them ; and he had armed himself in fashionable attire to 
conquer mademoiselle. 

The road passed through a little valley between two hills, 
and the castle, a stone mansion of many gables, was about half 
a mile from the town. It stood some distance off the road, in 
the midst of quite an extensive park of fine old trees, which 
were now almost denuded of leaves. Behind arose the dark 
mountains, and the scenery was altogether wild and pictur- 
esque. Monsieur Pince noted particularly every feature of 
the landscape, not only because he appreciated the rugged 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR FINCE. 


357 


' beauty of Nature as she appeared in this region — a kind of 
beauty that he was unaccustomed to — but because he wished 
‘ to learn the topography of the place. 

“ Ah !” he ejaculated to himself, as he caught sight of a 
ruined edifice which stood some distance in the rear of the 
more modern dwelling, “ that is a good base of operations.” 

The ruin was almost hidden in the tangled woods, which 
seemed in that particular spot to have been altogether neg- 
lected and allowed to grow as wild as nature willed ; and cer- 
tainly from an artistic point of view the scene lost none of 
its charms from this fact. 

Monsieur Pince walked boldly into the park and up to the 
house, on the door of which he gave a loud rap — there was 
no bell. He knew he was safe to ask for monsieur, being al- 
ready aware of his absence, and he waited, coolly flourishing 
his dainty walking-cane, until the door was opened, and a 
tastily-dressed woman presented herself before him. She 
was a good-looking woman ; but it would have been hard to 
define her age, for she was evidently a skilful artiste cos- 
7?ietique^ and being such, she might have been fifty, whereas 
to the uninitiated eye of innocence she would not have ap- 
j peared much more than half that age. 

j Monsieur Pince was neither uninitiated nor innocent, and 
I he took her measure with a glance of his eye. He recog- 
nized her at once as belonging to a class of ladies ’-maids 
only to be found in Paris, and exercising his very best Paris- 
ian manners, he addressed her in her native tongue. 

‘ ‘ Bon jour^ 77iade77wiselle^ ’ ’ he said, gracefully lifting his 
hat from his head, ” I did not expect to meet one of my 
lovely countrywomen in such a place as this — for I need 
scarcely tell you a Frenchman can never mistake the French 
grace and the French toilette — but I cannot tell you how de- 
lighted I am at such good fortune. In this land of barba- 
rians it is truly a joy to meet a young and beautiful Farisi- 
e7ine like yourself, niade77toiselleF 

” Ah, THonsieur I' she replied, obviously pleased that her 
cosmetic arts had, as she thought, deceived the eyes of her 
astute countryman, “ you may well say it is a land of barba- 
rians — ugh ! how I hate them ! But how can I serve you, 
monsieur V ’ 

” I wish to see mo7tsieur^ if he is at home, mademoiselle. 

I came from Vienna expressly to find him.” 

” Ah ! 1 am so sorry that you should have your journey 
for nothing ; but Monsieur Tuleep is not here.” 

Though Pince had been fully assured that Tulip was the 
man after whom he had been inquiring, he nevertheless felt 


3SS 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


a certain tingle of satisfaction when he heard the name. He 
made no outward demonstration, however, simply took a 
nervous twist in his mustache, to express his disappoint- 
ment, and said, “ This is indeed unfortunate, and Mofisieur 
Tuleep will be sorry he has missed me ; but pray don’t say I 
have had my journey for nothing, mademoiselle, since it has 
procured me the pleasure of an acquaintance with yourself.” 

‘‘0 monsieur ! you flatter me.” 

Pince protested'^hat he was speaking the simple, honest 
truth, and then asked if she knew where Monsieur Tuleep 
was to be found. No, she did not ; but if monsieur would 
wait a moment, she would go and ask madame. She invited 
him to come inside ; but this he declined to do, preferring, 
he said, to remain in the fresh air. 

When she was gone he took a few steps away from the 
house and looked up at the windows. Perhaps he expected 
— or hoped to see some one at one of them : if he did, he 
was disappointed, and resumed his position at the door, 
where he was soon rejoined by fjiademoiselle, 

” Aladame says 7nonsieur has gone to Trieste on business, 
and she does not know when he will return,” she said. ” I 
can tell you this much,” she added, “he has been gone 
some time, and it is probable that he may be back in a few 
days — if you think it worth your while to wait for him. If 
you go in search of him, you may chance to miss him on the 
way. ’ ’ 

This was only an expression of a desire on her part that 
he should remain in the neighborhood, and Monsieur Pince 
knew it. “I am not handsome,” he thought to himself, 
“ never was — even in my youth ; but doubtless masculine 
society is a pleasure she seldom enjoys here, and that is 
equivalent to purgatory^ for one of her sort ; so I will not 
flatter myself. ’ ’ 

While he was thus thinking to himself, a young lady, very 
pale and sad-looking, but very beautiful, came out of one 
of the paths which led off into the park, and mounted tlie 
steps to where they were standing. The Frenchman lifted 
his hat, and returning the civility with a bow, she entered 
the house. 

“ Who is the demoiselle ?” he asked. 

“ That is Mademoiselle Yeston ; she is the daughter of 
madame — madame was a widow when she married monsieur.'' 

“ She seems to be in bad health ; she is very pale. I 
should think this climate did not agree with her : it is too 
cold.” He knew better than to express any opinion with 
regard to her beauty, which had really startled him. 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 


359 


e “ Her health is good enough/' replied the woman with a 
1 shrug : “ she is obstinate, and makes herself and everybody 
• else unhappy — that’s all.” 

” Ah ! that is unfortunate ; she should be more complai- 
[ sant — obstinate young ladies are always troublesome. But 
5 why is she so ?” 

’ ” That is what we all would like to know. She is to be 

married, and can’t be prevailed upon to fix the day.” 

” She must be unreasonable. Most- ladies are happy to 
I fix the day for that interesting occasion.” 

” Perhaps so,” said mademoiselle dubiously, as if she 
would lead her countryman to believe that she thought his 
ideas of female complaisancy in such matters rather extreme. 
” She spends most of her time moping about among those 
old ruins up yonder,” she continued : “is it any wonder 
that she is pale ?” 

“No, I should say not ; and she is very foolish. I 
should think she would much rather get married ; it is a 
great joy to be married,” looking at his companion with ail 
insinuating smile. 

“ O monsieur !” said the woman, simpering, “ that’s as 
it may be, you know. But truly, I would be well pleased if 
I she could be brought to reason : it is only her obstinacy 
I that keeps us fretting our lives away in this dreadful place.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Monsieur and madame say they will keep her here until 
she marries the man they have chosen for her. He is hand- 
some and rich, and why does she not do as she is told and 
be done with it ?” 

“ Why, indeed ? But excuse me, mademoiselle — and 
don’t think me over curious about affairs that no way con- 
cern me — but how do they keep her here against her will ? 
It appears to me she is of age, and she could certainly go 
away easily enough if she were at all anxious to do so.” 

“ Not so easily as you may imagine, monsieur,” replied 
the other, laughing spitefully. “ One cannot travel with- 
out money. ” 

“ Ah !” 

“ And even if she had the money, there is no one about 
here who would dare to assist her in getting away. ’ ’ 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Because monsieur has authority, and whoever did it 
would be put in prison ; and when one gets in prison in 
this country, they say there is no telling if he will ever get 
out again.” 

“ That’s true enough,” said Monsieur Pince musingly. 


360 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


‘‘Well, adieu, mademoiselle. I have kept you long listen- | 
ing to my gossip ; but it has been such a pleasure to me that i 
I have not noticed how time was flying,’' looking at his 
watch. “ I hope to see you again, however." 

‘‘ Adieu, monsieur," responded the woman, happy in the 
thought of having proved so attractive to one of her coun- 
trymen who possessed such a splendid diamond pin and so 
handsome a watch ; ‘‘ I will be pleased to see you whenever 
you are pleased to come. " 

‘‘ Thanks, mademoiselle ; I am flattered by your conde- 
scension. Au revoir. Mademoiselle had better consent to 
be married off-hand." 

'' Au revoir monsieur. I wish somebody could persuade 
her to think so." 

As the Frenchman retraced his steps towards the inn, Fe 
thought over a plan of operations that suited him better than 
the one he had at first thought of, it promising to prove 
more expeditious and more certain of success, besides dis- 
pensing with the uncertain co-operation of mademoiselle, 
whom he had just left, and who he had perceived had no 
love for Miss Weston. 

A little way from the house he left the valley and clam- 
bered up the hill on the right-hand side of the road. From 
this elevation he had a view of the surrounding country, and 
saw that another road, issuing from the town in a different 
direction, wound about among the hills and passed close to 
the rear of the ruins of the old castle. ‘‘ Ah !" he said — 
that was all — and proceeded on his way. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ADVENTURES OF ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE CON- 
CLUDED. 

Monsieur Pince was described in his passport as a pro- 
prietaire — a discriminating title used quite generally by 
European travellers, though the sole worldly possessions of 
some of them consist of the luggage they carry with them. 
He had also given out that he was an amateur artist, which 
easily accounted for his presence in that region of country. 

The day after his visit to the Herrnhaus.^ as such man- 
sions are called in Germany and Austria, the Frenchman, 
having doffed his fashionable attire and arrayed himself in a 
loose costume, like those generally affected by artists, with 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR FINCE. 361 

a rather conspicuous sketch-book under his arm, left the 
town by the new road he had discovered. 

He walked along, whistling softly to himself and swinging 
a rather stouter cane than the one he carried the day be- 
fore, and his thoughts were altogether unlike those which 
would have occupied the mind of one of the brotherhood he 
had chosen to personate. 

The way, which wound about among the hills and crossed 
a brawling mountain stream, spanned by a substantial stone 
bridge, some distance from the town, was considerably 
longer than the other road — which, like most things in these 
modern days, aimed more at directness than any thing else — 
but Monsieur Pince, walking quickly as soon as he got out- 
side of the town, arrived at the spot to which his fancy had 
already travelled ahead of him, in a little less than half an hour. 

Had he really been an artist he would have consumed 
much more time in his walk ; but he had pushed straight 
ahead, never looking to the right or left, nor heeding the 
beauties which nature had so lavishly scattered around his 
path. 

Arrived opposite the ruined castle, he found that it had 
faced the road by which he had come. It stood about a 
hundred yards off on a bit of rising ground, and had to all 
appearance been an extensive edifice ; but it was impossible 
to form any idea of it other than that with regard to its size, 
the greater portion having been torn down to furnish mate- 
rial for the more modern building, with its outhouses and 
stables. 

There were a few blocks of stone, which had been part of 
an ancient walk and gateway lying near the road, and scat- 
tered here and there, beyond these were some old, old trees, 
some still vigorous and healthy, but others dead or half dead, 
with their naked branches lifted up to heaven like the arms 
of giant skeletons. 

Monsieur Pince made his way through the brushwood, 
weeds, and rank grasses — that, like a wild revolutionary vege- 
table rabble, had overrun a space once devoted to floricul- 
ture, choking down and destroying their aristocratic sisters 
as relentlessly as if they had been a human mob — and in a 
j few minutes stood in front of the original portal of the an- 
I cient castle. 

A scene of wreck and ruin lay around him, picturesque 
and beautiful in its dire disorder and decay. Broken col- 
umns, cornices, and friezes, and half-demolished arches, 
tmingled in inextricable confusion with rubbish of all 
sorts, overgrown with creepers and vines, shrubs and weeds, 


362 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


and overhung by weird-looking trees that seemed to grow 
with wilful wildness, as if the spot were the legitimate do- 
main of the Lord of Misrule. 

Climbing into the wide doorway by the aid of the frag- 
ments which lay in front of it (the stone steps had been re- 
moved — in fact he had stood upon them the day before 
while talking to mademoiselle) the Frenchman found himself 
in a great hall — or what once had been a hall. Nothing re- 
mained now to show what it had been except the bases of 
its partition walls, and these in some places were so covered 
with rank vegetation as to be entirely hidden ; for the sun, 
pouring his fructifying influence freely down, had waked 
into being the germs that Mother Earth held in her bosom, 
and which, being once aroused into activity, like those di- 
minutive elves who are reputed to have strength to lift enor- 
mous weights, had hoisted the mighty stones on their fragile 
heads, pushing them aside and piling them up, and rent the 
flagged pavement from end to end, forcing a way for them- 
selves into the world of light and life. 

Monsieur Pince did not stop to speculate on the wonder- 
ful and mysterious forces of nature as exhibited on every 
hand around him, but made his way through the great hall 
into one of smaller dimensions, and through that into what 
had been the courtyard. Here, near where a broken column 
lay on the ground, and which had evidently been used as a 
seat by somebody, he picked up a little knot of sober-col- 
ored ribbon. 

“ Ah !” he said, Monsieur Alford shall have a souvenir. 
Poor fellow, he will kiss this when nobody is looking, and 
make a fool of himself over it and he laughed softly to 
himself at the idea. “ But who can blame him ? I think I 
would do the same for such a woman as that, old as I am.’* 

He seated himself on the piece of column, which was par- 
tially inclosed by a hedge of thick undergrowth, and opened 
his sketch-book, at the same time taking a pencil out of his 
pocket. He had not been there long when a rabbit came 
out of the hedge, and crept shyly towards him. ‘‘ Ah !” he 
said, and raised his head to look at it ; but as he did so the 
little animal shot back within the shelter of the brush, where 
it sat up for a moment looking at him curiously, and then 
retreated to some inner citadel of safety. 

“Aha, little scamp!’’ continued Pince, “you were ex- 
pecting somebody, but it was not the somebody you found. 
Poor chap ! you will miss her when she is gone, and wonder 
what has become of her, and then you will go back to your 
wild ways and forget her.’’ 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 


363 


Monsieur Pince was not much of a sentimentalist ; but 
what little sentiment was in him had been aroused by this 
little incident, and he was still thinking of it, with a pleasant 
smile on his umber-colored lips, when he heard the rustle of 
garments on the other side of the hedge. 

He grasped the pencil, which lay in the dividing section 
of the sketch-book, and pretended to be earnestly studying 
the scene before him. In another instant, with a startled 
look in her eyes, Elenor Weston stood before him. He 
arose to his feet, and lifting his hat, was about to address 
her when she turned to retreat. 

“ Stay, mademoiselle,” he cried in French, and then cor- 
recting himself and speaking English, he said, ” Listen to 
me one moment. Miss Weston. I have been sent to seek 
you — sent by one from whom you will be glad to hear.” 

Elenor had stopped when she heard the English tongue, 
and now stood staring at him with an expression divided be- 
tween hope and fear. She did not know what to make of 
this man — a Frenchman, as she could see, though she did 
not recognize him as the same she had seen the day before 
— ^^who knew her name, and proclaimed himself an agent or 
messenger acting for some one else. 

The Frenchman hastily look a letter from his breast 
pocket and held it towards her. ‘ ‘ See, mademoiselle, ’ ' he 
said, ” read !” 

With outstretched hand she took the letter from him, and 
still withdrawing suspiciously away, read the superscription. 
He could see her eyes dilate as she did so, while her face 
became a shade paler. She recognized the handwriting. ‘ 

” Excuse me, monsieur,"' she said, her voice trembling 
and the letter in her hand shaking like a leaf stirred by the 
wind. 

” Compose yourself, mademoiselle, compose yourself, for 
God’s sake,” said Monsieur Pince. 

” Yes, yes,” she replied, ” I will — I will try. But — but. 
Wait forme here a moment ;” and without another word she 
left him, disappearing behind the hedge. 

He sat down and waited patiently, and after the lapse of 
about a quarter of an hour he heard her coming back. 
When she appeared before him her eyes were red, as though 
she had been weeping ; but there was a calm and happy 
look in them which he had not seen there before. 

“ The bitterness of her fount of grief 

Had sweetened been by long-pent tears.’* 


‘‘‘You have read, mademoiselle ?” 


3<54 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


** Yes, monsieur. 

“ And you will trust me ?*’ 

** Yes, monsieur. 

“ Very well, five days hence I will meet you here again ; 
I will bring a lady with me, to avoid scandal, and you must 
be prepared to accompany us to Vienna, where Monsieur 
Alford is awaiting you.’" 

“Very well, monsieur, “ replied Elenor, looking in her 
companion's face with earnest frankness ; “ I will trust 
you." 

''Eh hien,, mademoiselle ; will you not write a billet to 
monsieur ? A line — a word — any thing will do." 

“ How can I, monsieur?" she said, spreading open her 
empty hands in front of her. 

“ Ah — true — I forgot. But stay ;" and he turned and 
picked up the sketch-book and pencil which he had laid on 
the broken column. “ Here, tear out a page and write 
something : it will make him very happy. ' ' 

She did as he bid her, while he sauntered off to a little dis- 
tance in order not to disturb her thoughts. Having finished 
her note, she folded and addressed it, and then going to 
where he was examining a part of the old ruin, handed it to 
him. 

“ Good !" he said, placing it in a recess of his pocket- 
book. “ We have no envelope, mademoiselle ; but it shall 
be sacred." 

“ Thanks, monsieur. And now ?" 

“ Now I will bid you adieu. Five days hence, at this 
same hour, you may expect me again. Au revoivy madem- 
oiselle." 

“ Adieu, monsieur. I will be ready." 

When Monsieur Pince regained the road he looked about 
him ; he became once more a topographical engineer, and 
clambering up to the top of a hill, he took a survey of the 
surrounding country. He saw that a little farther on there 
was a cross-road which intersected the one by which he had 
come that morning. It appeared to lead off in the direction 
of the post-road, and he suspected that it intersected that 
also. 

He saw a peasant trudging along with a bundle of 
fagots on his back, and he made a signal to tlie man to join 
him. The peasant of Europe, like all other slaves, is ready 
enough to turn out of his way to talk with anybody who will 
talk with him. This one was no exception to the rule, and 
dropping his burden on the ground, he climbed the hill with 
far greater ease than the Frenchman had. 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 3^5 

Pince knew very well the fellow would neither understand 
German nor French ; but he conjectured very rightly that 
there would be a few German words familiar to him, and 
when they stood together on the top of the hill he pointed 
to the cross-road, tracing its course with his finger as far as 
he could see it, repeated the word poststrasse several times. 

“ Nein, nein,'’ replied the peasant, shaking his head, and 
pointing farther south. 

“ Ja, ja, ” said Pince, tapping his forehead with his finger 
and trying to make his companion understand that he knew 
where the poststrasse was, and then repeated his first panto- 
mime. 

“ Nein, nein, nein,’' persisted the other vehemently, 
shaking his head again, but far more vigorously, and mut- 
tering something entirely beyond the comprehension of civil- 
ized ears ; while the Frenchman, at his wit’s end, chattered 
and gesticulated in a manner quite as incomprehensible to 
uncivilized ears. 

At last an idea occurred to the latter, and opening the 
sketch-book which he carried under his arm, he held it up 
before the other’s face, while he traced the course of the 
cross-road with his pencil. The man nodded his head ap- 
provingly, as if he understood, and Pince then drew a few 
houses, from which, he traced another liner passing across the 
first at nearly right angles, saying as he did so, '' poststrasse P' 
and making a black dot where they intersected. 

** said the fellow, comprehending at last ; 

and making a cross with his two index fingers, he grinned, as 
much as to say that such would have been a simpler mode 
of illustration, which the Frenchman cheerfully acknowl- 
edged. 

Monsieur Pince determined to explore this new-found 
road — it might prove of service to him. He found that it 
entered the post-road about two miles from the town. 

He had had a long walk, and when he arrived at the inn 
felt a little fatigued ; but his appetite was by no means im- 
paired, and after enjoying a hearty dinner, and smoking a 
cigar, he paid a visit to his friend the postmaster, with 
whom he spent the balance of the afternoon. When he 
parted with him, he told him, as though incidentally, that 
he intended going to Vienna the next day, but would be 
back in a day or two, and begged the official to keep any 
letters that might come addressed to him until his return. 

This was all done for effect, of course — for he knew that 
no letters addressed to him would ever come to that post- 
office. The postmaster and the commissary of police would 


366 


AFTER Many years. 


talk the matter over together, and the former, whose friend- 
ship he had cultivated, would persuade his crony that the 
stranger was a man who might be trusted — nothing danger- 
ous or suspicious about him — and he would thus be allowed 
to come and go at pleasure, with little interference from the 
agents of authority. 

The next day he departed for the capital, leaving his lug- 
gage at the inn, and telling the landlord he would be back in 
a day or two, bringing a lady with him, for whom he desired 
a room to be prepared. 

He only remained in Vienna long enough to procure a 
passport for Miss Elenor Weston, when he returned to 
Weiskirch, accompanied by Madame TruUeau. Here he 
hired a carriage with a pair of good, stout horses, and in a 
couple of hours they drove up to the inn door, their arrival 
in a hired vehicle instead of the public conveyance exciting 
no particular remark, as one of the party was an old lady. 

This was the third day after his interview with Miss Wes- 
ton, and the fourth day was employed in driving with Ma- 
dame Trudeau about the neighboring country, under the pre- 
tence of showing her the beautiful scenery. The commis- 
sary of police, who had been favorably impressed with re- 
gard to the Frenchman by his friend the postmaster, had 
made a mere formal examination of Madame Tf't/deau" s 
passport, and expressing himself satisfied, their movements 
excited no more notice than would those of any strangers 
who happened to visit a little out-of-the-way country town. 

The next day — the day appointed by Pince to meet Miss 
Weston — the carriage was ordered out immediately after 
breakfast, and the driver told to take the post-road. When 
they arrived at the cross-road already mentioned, he was 
directed to turn into it. The way was rough, and in some 
places the man hesitated to proceed ; but there were a 
hatchet and nails and a good supply of small rope stowed 
away in the box in case of need, and Pince promising a 
liberal reward over and above the carriage hire, besides en- 
gaging to pay for all damages, persuaded him to go on, 
and they at last reached the neighborhood of the ruined 
castle. 

Leaving his companion seated in the carriage. Monsieur 
Pince hastened to the place of appointment. Miss Weston 
was already there ; she was seated on the broken column, 
feeding a pair of rabbits, that hopped about close at her feet 
without the least sign of fear. As the Frenchman made his 
appearance they scampered away, and their benefactress 
arose and came towards him. 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR FINCE. 367 

Bon jour ^ mademoiselle,*' he said, lifting his hat. 
“ You see I have kept my word." 

“ Yes, monsieur ; but did no one come with you ?" 

“Yes, mademoiselle — the lady I told you about — she 
awaits you in the carriage out there." 

She gave a little sigh, and looked disappointed. 

“ It could not be, mademoiselle," said Pince sympa- 
thetically, “ it could not be — I am sorry. Monsieur desired 
to come, and said you told him in your note to come." 

“Yes, I did," she replied sadly. 

“ Yes, I can understand that very well ; but had he per- 
sisted, it might have spoiled every thing. You see, too many 
of us might have aroused suspicion, and I had to threaten to 
throw up the case before he would listen to reason. But 
you shall see him soon, mademoiselle ; and, in the mean time, 
here is a billet for you. You can read it as you go : now we 
must make haste. Are you ready ?’ ’ 

“ Yes," she replied, thrusting the letter in her bosom, and 
extracting a travelling-bag from the hedge, “ this is all the 
luggage I shall need for the present. Mr. Alford told me in 
the letter which you gave me the first time I met you that 
my guardian had intrusted him with some funds for me, and 
I will be able to supply myself with whatever 1 require in 
Paris. " 

“ Come, then, mademoiselle, let us go ;" and he took the 
bag from her, assisting her over the obstructions in the way 
while he led her along. 

When they reached the carriage he introduced her to 
Madame Trudeau — who received her with a motherly air of 
affection that set her at her ease at once — and taking her 
passport from his pocket, handed it to her, saying, “ There, 
mademoiselle, is your protector for the present. With that 
paper in your possession no one will dare interfere with 
you. Driver, go straight to Weiskirch. Au revoir, ntes- 
dames. 

“ But surely, monsieur," said Elenor, looking out of the 
window, “ you are going with us.’* 

“ No, mademoiselle ; I desire to remain here a few hours 
longer, but I will come on to-morrow to Vienna, where I 
shall have the pleasure of seeing you again. Adieu ;’* and 
he lifted his hat as they drove away. 

As soon as a turn in the road took the carriage out of 
sight, he snapped his fingers two or three times, and laugh- 
ing softly to himself, took the nearest road to the town. 

lla, ha!" he said, as he walked along, “ I might have 
gone with them, but then I should have missed the best part 


368 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


of the sport. No, no ; I must see the effects of my own 
petard before I turn my back forever on my good friends 
here.’' 

He went back to the inn, where he proposed to rest 
quietly until late in the afternoon, by which time he felt sure 
that Miss Weston’s flight would be discovered. The land- 
lord expressed some surprise that he had returned on foot 
and without the lady. 

“ Oh ! she has gone on to Weiskirch,” he said carelessly. 
“ She didn’t feel very well, and as we were both going to- 
morrow, I advised her to go to-day instead, so that she 
might consult a doctor. I will follow by the diligence in the 
morning.” 

This answer was perfectly satisfactory to the innkeeper, 
who, like most of his race, was apathetic, and never troubled 
himself about the affairs of other people so long as he was 
paid what was due him ; so Monsieur Pince ate his dinner 
and drank his bottle of Hungarian wine in peace, and then 
strolled to the post-office. 

He had not seen much of the postmaster since his return 
from Vienna, and the offlcial seemed much pleased when he 
sat down now, as though he intended to spend some time in 
social converse. 

” Have you heard the news?” was the first thing the 
Austrian said when they were seated. 

” What news, monsieur ?” 

” Ah ! I might have known that you hadn’t, of course, 
for I only heard it myself about a quarter of an hour 
since.” 

” Something special that has come by the post ?” asked 
the Frenchman, though he had a suspicion as to what the 
news was. 

” No, no ; something that has occurred here close to us. 
But I will tell you. You remember what I told you about 
the young lady who was living at the great house over 
there ?” 

” Yes, yes ; what about her ? has any thing happened to 
her ? is she married ? — somebody told me she was going to 
be.” 

” No, no ; but she has run away.” 

” Run away ! Where could she run to here ?” 

” That’s what I can’t tell you. Mademoiselle, the maid 
I told you of, came to the office a little while ago in search 
of Johann. She was in a great state of excitement, and 
said the young lady was gone, and madame, the mother, in 
hysterics.” 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 369 

Ah ! — and monsieur ! the father, will- be very angry when 
he comes back to hnd his pretty bird flown.’' 

“ He is not her father at all — only her step-father — and I 
don’t know that anybody will care whether he is angry or 
not.” 

” And what are they going to do about it in the mean 
time?” 

” Ha ! that is more than I know. Johann went up there, 
though he says he can do nothing. He cannot leave his 
post here ; and even if he could move in the matter, I think 
he would move very slowly. Nobody knows any thing about 
mada7ne^ the mother, and everybody hates the step-father, 
and that other, his friend, who is so much here. He is a 
regular bad one, and hasn’t a polite word for any one whom 
he thinks beneath him ; and that’s a good sign that he is no 
gentleman, for all the fine clothes and jewels he wears.” 

“Who is he?” asked Pince, as though he had never 
heard of him. 

” Oh ! he is the man they wanted the young lady to marry 
' — mademoiselle has told everybody about it — and it is certain 
she has been very badly treated among them.” 

” Aha ! Well, it’s an old story, and though it’s no affair 
of mine, I’m glad the poor young lady has escaped.” 

” And so am I ; and so will everybody else be, except 
those who were keeping her here against her will.” 

Monsieur Pince stayed talking with the postmaster until 
the return of the commissary of police, who, when ques- 
tioned by his friend, only shrugged his shoulders and 
I grinned grimly, from which the Frenchman judged that no 
I clew had been discovered as to the mode of the young lady’s 
escape ; and he sauntered away to pay a farewell visit to 
! mademoiselle, 

” O monsieur !” cried this femme ancienne-jeune^ when 
she opened the door in answer to his knock, “you are 
come again, and Monsiem^ Tuleep has not returned — and 
[ mademoiselle has run away — and madame is raving — and I 
I am ready to run away myself — and there is nobody to help 
I us — these beasts in this country are like wooden men, they 
j move not other than like a snail. But perhaps you will do 
[ it, monsieur. Yes, I will go and ask madame to see you.” 

She was about to run off in search of her mistress, when 
\ Pince stopped her. 

j ” Stay !” he said ; ” what in the name of all the saints do 
j you suppose I can do in the matter ? In fact, what is the 
matter ? You say mademoiselle has run away — do you think 
1 can catch her ? and where has she gone ?” 


370 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


* * Oh ! that we do not know ; but you might run after her. * * 

“But which way should I run? You say you don’t 
know where she is gone.” 

“ No, I don’t ; and, for a truth, I don’t think I care.” 

“ Ah ! you don’t care. Why then should I fatigue myself 
running after her just to please you ?” 

“ Because I hate her, and would bring, her back if I 
could.” 

“ Oh well ! if that’s all, you can find some one else to hate, 
since she is gone. But madame, the mother : I suppose she 
is heart-broken ?’ ’ 

“ Heart-broken ! I don’t think she has got any heart to 
break ; but she is mad enough to break any thing else that 
comes in her way, and she makes it quite an en/er for those 
who are left here with her. But I must run and tell her you 
are here. You are a friend of monsieur ' — Pince smiled 
curiously — “ and she will be glad to confer with you.” 

She was about to start off once more, but Pince, who had 

heard all he wanted to hear, and had no desire to make 

madame' s acquaintance, stopped her again. 

“No, no, mademoiselle,” he said, “ pray do not disturb 
the lady. Grief, you know, is sacred, and I could really do 

nothing to assist her. I think I will go to Trieste, and per- 

haps I shall find Monsieur Tulip there. If I do, I will tell 
him all that has happened here during his absence. Ate 
revoir^ mademoiselle ; au revoir. ’ ’ 

“ Au revoir^ monsieur. I’m sorry you are going ; but I 
don’t blame you for wanting to get away from this horrible 
place.” 

Monsieur Pince walked to the inn smiling complacently to 
himself all the way, and the next day he returned to Vienna, 
leaving the inhabitants of the little town to draw their own 
conclusions when a ray of light should break upon their 
sluggish intellects, if it ever did. 

Madame Trudeau and Elenor had become excellent 
friends before their arrival in the Austrian capital. The old 
French lady had been very much taken with her young com- 
panion from the first, and had assumed a motherly care of 
her that was very pleasing and soothing to the poor girl, 
who had just left her own mother to escape tyranny and 
cruelty. 

Having learned that Madame T rudeau had been engaged, 
by Monsieur Pince’ s advice, to be her chaperon and protec- 
tress under the trying circumstances in which she was 
placed, she submitted herself entirely to her guidance, and 
in her heart thanked the little Frenchman for the delicate 


ALFORD AND MONSIEUR PINCE. 


371 


thoughtfulness that had rendered her situation so much less 
embarrassing than it would otherwise have been. 

The old lady was present at the lovers* first interview. 
On this she insisted, though she discreetly turned her back 
on them, and hiding herself behind the window-curtains, 
studied the people in the street with more interest than she 
had ever done before. We will do the same, dear reader 
and friend — for surely as you are my reader I may call you 
friend — unless you be, perchance, a critic, who only reads 
to find fault with one who does his best to entertain you. 

The day after Monsieur Pince’s return to Vienna was 
agreed upon for the departure of the two ladies for Paris 
under the -escort of Alford, who, now that he had recovered 
his long-lost one, had no idea of parting with her until she 
was safe on the other side of the Atlantic, and then not for 
long. Pince stayed to see them off — to witness the final 
scene in his little drama, as he called it, before starting for 
Trieste, whither he was going — not in search of Mr. Tulip, 
however, but on his way to the Orient, where he contem- 
plated studying human nature under a new aspect. 

The carriage was waiting in front of the hotel, and 
Madame Trudeau and Elenor, equipped for travelling, were 
standing in the vestibule near the door — Alford and Pince 
were in the office settling the bill — when who should come 
up the steps but Mr. Tulip. He was about to pass in, but 
his glance resting for an instant on the two ladies, he 
stopped and stood like a man electrified. 

“ Elenor, Miss Weston !” he exclaimed, correcting him- 
self as he spoke — for Elenor had never permitted him to ad- 
dress her except as Miss Weston — “ what are you doing 
here ? and where is your mother ?’* 

“You will find my mother where you left her,** said 
Elenor calmly, though her lip trembled a little. ‘ ‘ I am on 
my way to America.** 

“America!” he repeated with a touch of scorn in his 
tone. “ Perhaps you have forgotten your geography ; but I 
can refresh your memory, and inform you that America is 
no day*s journey from Vienna, and not to be reached by a 
young lady with neither friends nor money ; so you had bet- 
ter give up this silly idea, and make up your mind to return 
with me to your mother. If you have any regard for your 
reputation, you will do so without putting me to the neces- 
sity of using the force of my authority — which will count for 
something here.** 

Elenor smiled at the latter part of his speech, but paid no 
further attention to it, well knowing it was only an empty 


372 


AFTER MAMV YEARS. 


threat, from which she had nothing to fear. “ I am neither 
without money nor without friends,” she replied, turning to 
Madame Trudeau — who said ” Oui, ma c/iere,'^ as though 
she understood the appeal — “ and I shall proceed upon my 
journey, only regretting the necessity which compelled me 
to leave my mother under such unhappy circumstances.” 

Tulip, whose face had become purple with anger, was 
about to reply, when Alford and Pince made their appear- 
ance. The purple hue changed to a delicate lilac when his 
glance fell on. the young artist. ” 1 suppose these are some 
of your friends too,” he said contemptuously. 

“You are perfectly correct, sir, in your supposition,” 
said Alford, stepping forward and confronting him. He 
had been startled at first on encountering Tulip thus unex- 
pectedly, but had recovered himself immediately. The lit- 
tle brown Frenchman stood back and said nothing ; but the 
expression of his face showed that he enjoyed this unlooked- 
for datouement to his little drama — for he took in the situa- 
tion at once. 

‘ ‘ Come, sir, ' ' continued the young man, ‘ ‘ make way ; 
the ladies wish to pass.” 

“ No,” cried Tulip, in a rage, “ I’ll not make way — I’ll 
not permit you to ruin the reputation of this silly girl. I 
am in some sort her natural guardian, and I will save her 
from the evil designs of a villain in spite of herself.” 

Yet, notwithstanding his bravado, he retreated before the 
threatening glance of his opponent, who advanced upon 
him, and, finding he did not move fast enough to suit his 
impatient mood, seized him by the collar, slinging him 
aside without ceremony, and conducted the ladies to the 
carriage, the bystanders, of whom fortunately there were 
not many, laughing and shrugging their shoulders, and evi- 
dently enjoying the scene. 

Tulip shook his fist and stamped his feet in impotent 
rage. “I’ll see,” he cried, “if this outrage is to be per- 
mitted ! I will go to the United States’ Minister and repre- 
sent the case to him, and we’ll find out if an insane girl — 
my step-daughter — is to be kidnapped and carried off in this 
way before my very eyes.” 

“ Go !” replied Alford, though Monsieur Pince earnestly 
besought him to be silent, “ go, sir ! and you will find out 
there that the capacity in which you serve the Austrian Gov- 
ernment is no secret.” 

This parting shot was like a mortal blow to the one at 
whom it was aimed. His jaw dropped, and the purple hue 
of rage faded from Jiis face as he slunk away into the hotel. 


CHRISTMAS IN ROME. 


373 


“ Ah said Pince, with an air of disappointment, as the 
carriage drove off, “ you have spoiled a very pretty side- 
scene, monsieur ; he will not go to Monsieur the Minister 
now. * * 


CHAPTER XX. 

CHRISTMAS IN ROME. 

During the Christmas week Rome is in a state of excite- 
ment only equalled by that of the Carnival season. From 
an early hour in the morning until noon each day, unbroken 
streams of human beings, clothed in every variety of cos- 
tume — -from the miserable, half-starved wretch, with his 
empty stomach and load of rags, to the well-filled, elabo- 
rately dressed and decorated diplomat, with his showy live- 
ries —pour forth from the cellars and palaces of the city and 
wend their way to the Ponte Sant’ Angelo, where they unite, 
forming a noisy, heterogeneous army that moves on to Saint 
Peter’s. 

Carriages filled with wealthy foreigners from all parts of 
the civilized world ; diplomatic vehicles, with gaudily-ap- 
parelled footmen hanging on behind ; state coaches of cardi- 
nals, gay in scarlet and gold, and the more modest turnouts 
of archbishops and bishops, rattle over the paved streets, 
scattering mud and filth on the coarse garments of luc poor 
pilgrim, who, with his scallop shell in his hat, his staff and 
rosary in his hand, plods wearily on to that shrine, to visit 
which he has traversed many a weary mile, footsore and 
hungry. But he is not the only recipient of these favors 
from the rich, whose mettlesome horses dash along without 
regard to the lives and limbs of the canaille : crowds of 
gayly-dressed peasants, swarms of loathsome beggars, and 
squads of careless, laughing students and soldiers, join him 
in his march. 

The spectator involuntarily asks, “ Is it possible for any 
edifice raised by human hands to afford breathing space to 
this vast multitude ?” 

Enter and see, O Thomas ! Thousands are already here 
— they are still pouring in at every entrance — and yet there 
seems space for thousands more. Now, and now only, is 
one able to fully appreciate the immensity of this unrivalled 
temple : no scientific measurement can convey to the mind 
so just an idea of its wonderful proportions as this steady in- 
flux of people, who seem dwarfed into pigmies as soon as 


374 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


they enter the sacred portal, and remind one of ants crawling 
about an ordinary apartment. 

There are few workers in Rome during the Christmas fes- 
tivities, and Oliver Maxwell, like the majority of his artistic 
brethren, threw aside his crayon for the nonce. 

Mr. Wetherby, however, still clung to his solitary life, 
notwithstanding the earnest solicitations of his daughter that 
he would accompany her, if only once, to the great church. 

‘‘ I don’t like to refuse you, dear,” he said ; ” but I am 
ill at ease in a crowd, and I shall be better satisfied here 
with my books, where there is no noise to disturb me : my 
nerves are not equal to all this excitement. ’ ’ 

” But, papa,” urged Clarissa, ” you have never even seen 
St. Peter’s ; and surely you don’t mean to stay cooped up in 
this room all the time, and leave Rome at last without see- 
ing what people travel thousands of miles to look at. 
Come ! do come !” 

An expression of pain passed over his face ; but still he 
steadily refused to comply with her request. ” No, no, my 
darling,” he replied, playing nervously with her long silken 
hair. She was kneeling beside him with her arms resting on 
his knees, while she looked up beseechingly into his face. 
” I cannot go with you now,” he continued. ” 1 shall not 
leave Rome without seeing something of it ; but not now, 
not now.” 

Clarissa sighed, and as she bent her head to hide the look 
of disappointment, a tear fell among the folds of her dress. 
Her father did not see the tear, but he heard the sigh, and 
stooping over, kissed her on the forehead. 

” You must not think hard of me, my dear, if I cannot 
conquer my aversion to the noise and bustle of a crowd,” 
he said. ” If I did not know you had pleasant companions 
I would do violence to my own selfish feelings, I assure 
you, rather than you should miss all these pleasures.” 

“It is not that I care for the pleasures so much,” said 
the girl, “ but — ” 

“ But what ?” 

“ But — but — I wish you would come with me sometimes.” 
Clarissa did not tell him, as she had been on the point of 
doing, that his solitary life — his seeming avoidance of stran- 
gers — appeared so strange, not only to herself, but to every 
one else ; and he did not guess her thought. 

“ Well, well, dear,” he said, still toying with her hair, “ I 
will some day. We will take a carriage and go the rounds, 
and you shall be my guide, to show me every thing worth 
seeing ; but we will wait until all these shows are over, when 


375 


CHRISTMAS IN ROME. 

\ 

I we can enjoy ourselves quietly. Go now, and amuse your- 
i self, and don’t fancy that I would care for these grand 
pageants.” 

She arose, and kissing him, went her way ; but her heart 
was not light, as it should have been in one possessed of 
youth, beauty, and loving friends, though in the presence of 
those friends she tried to appear cheerful and happy. And 
she would have been supremely happy could she have gotten 
rid of that gnawing anxiety with regard to her father, which, 
like ” the worm in the bud,” fed upon her sweet young life, 
and must, if it continued, bring her to a premature grave. 

Mr. Wetherby did not seem to have remarked the change 
that had gradually come over his daughter ; but Mrs. Gwyn 
had, and she, good, simple soul, had charged it to the ac- 
count of love — that heart-disease by which most young people 
are afflicted at one time or another, producing dilferent 
effects upon different temperaments — subduing the spirits of 
the gay, and enlivening those of the sad. It had been the 
wish of her heart that Oliver and Clarissa should love each 
other, and she soon perceived that the young man was fast 
falling in with her desires. With the girl it was different. 
She had not known the state of her own sentiments until 
very recently, and when the revelation came — as it does 
sometimes, all of a sudden — when we find we have over- 
stepped the limits of friendship and entered that charmed 
circle in which friends, however dear, may not tread — she 
had timidly shrunk away from it, and hid herself, metaphor- 
ically speaking, only to reappear when every thing seemed 
calm and quiet again, and then with many a startled look in 
those dark-gray, earnest eyes. 

Oliver, with a lover’s quick intuition, had noted these 
' little signs and rejoiced in them, though he dared not ap- 
proach too boldly the timid, fluttering dove, who, trembling 
and shy as she had never been before in his presence, 
seemed prepared to fly at the least demonstration of tender- 
ness on his part. 

But the secret joy of loving and being beloved had not the 
power to lift the shadow of sadness from her sweet soul, and 
perhaps it added something to it ; so Mrs. Gwyn was not 
altogether wrong in her surmises. 

Mrs. Rayburn had removed from the Hotel de 1’ Europe to 
apartments near the church of II Trinita del Monte. These 
had been secured for her by her nephew, who had an eye to 
the beauty of the situation when he selected them. On the 
one hand was a bird’s-eye view of Rome, on the other of 
the Borghese Villa and the Campagna, and when the sun 


37 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


was setting in glory in the west the vesper hymns of the 
nuns added an ineffable charm to the scene. 

Aunt Polly found that Harold had spoken but the truth 
when he had told her she should see a great deal of him. 
How it happened she could not tell, but she soon found her- 
self a sort of generalissimo of a gadding party, as she called 
it. . She knew that her nephew was using her as a tool to 
advance his own selfish designs ; but why should she refuse 
to allow herself to be so used when she was so well satisfied 
with the choice he had made, and really quite as anxious to 
bring the affair to a favorable issue as he was himself ? 

So Aunt Polly was always ready whenever called upon — 
taking Clarissa under her wing when Oliver was not along — 
and managing at all times, with cunning art that one would 
hardly have given her credit for, to leave her nephew a fair 
field. 

Harold Gathwright had been left an orphan when he was 
twelve years old, and Mrs. Rayburn, who was his nearest 
living relative, had assumed the charge of him. Having no 
children of her own, those maternal affections which all 
women have — though some are never called upon to exercise 
them — had been centred in the boy. 

He had grown up all she could desire — handsome, honest, 
affectionate, and with a fair amount of talent, which had 
been fully developed by an excellent education — and he had 
pleased her in all things save one — he had utterly and 
entirely failed in one thing that she considered absolutely 
essential to the maintenance of the respectability of every 
man — he had passed out of the twenties, and was slowly but 
surely approaching that age when man — if he has failed to 
secure for himself a gentle partner to share life’s vicissitudes 
with him — is apt to content himself in single blessedness for 
the balance of his days, and had never shown the slightest 
inclination to marry. 

Aunt Polly was an old-fashioned old lady, with old-fash- 
ioned ideas, and she could not understand this, to her, phe- 
nomenal man, who among all the girls he had known — and 
some of them were of the very choicest type — had never 
found one who had power to lure him into the ways of love. 

Of course she was delighted now that his hour had come, 
and did all she could to speed his wooing — conspiring with 
him to devise parties of pleasure to all manner of places, 
and giving frequent teas, luncheons, and dinners at her 
apartments — quiet little entertainments, at which true social 
enjoyment took the place of stiff-backed ceremony. 

“ Ah, you good old aunty !” said Harold, after one 


CHRISTMAS IN ROME. 


377 


especially pleasant evening, during the course of which he 
had ventured to whisper a few words of tenderness to Syl- 
via — words that had been received silently, but without any 
sign of displeasure on her part — “ you excellent old lady ; 
what a treasure you are 

“ Oh yes ! no doubt of it,” replied the old lady, looking 
quizzically into his happy face, and laughing ; ” but you are 
late in finding it out. However, it’s better to have one’s 
virtues discovered late in the day than not at all. But what 
has brought you to a true sense of my value, Hal ?” 

” Oh, you are such a dear old trickster !” 

” Trickster, indeed ! First you call me a treasure, and 
now you tell me I’m a trickster. I declare, boy, I’ve a 
good mind to slap your saucy face. Trickster ! did ever 
any one hear such a term applied to a person of my age and 
respectability ? Why, Harold, I think you must be beside 
yourself.” 

” I don’t know but that I am, aunty,” said Harold, 
stroking his long mustache complacently. ” But forgive 
me ; I didn’t mean to apply the term to you in a disreputa- 
ble sense. I meant — I meant — ” 

” I know what you meant, sir ; so it is no use your enter- 
ing into any explanations. You know, and I do too, that I 
am a sort of social spider, laying my snares to catch a sim- 
ple fly ; but I don’t care, dear, if I can only succeed in 
catching her for you.” 

” That’s a good aunty,” said Harold, picking up his hat 
and giving her a kiss ; ” didn’t I say you were a treasure ?” 

” Yes, and a trickster too, sir,” she replied, giving a little 
slap at his face ; but he dodged the blow and ran out of the 
room laughing, singing out a cheery good-night as he went 
down the steps in three or four long strides. 

” What a fellow he is !” said Mrs. Rayburn, listening to 
his retreating footsteps ; “he seems to have turned back 
and cheated time of ten or fifteen years. No, he’s not a bit 
too old for her, not a bit ; she’s not a girl to be satisfied 
with a boy for a husband.” 

Christmas Day was bright and beautiful, as it usually is in 
Rome — a balmy, sunny day — and after the crowd and tur- 
moil of the streets, the quiet of Mrs. Rayburn’s apartments 
— to which Oliver and his sister and Clarissa Wetherby had 
been invited to luncheon — was charming. 

Luncheon — to which we usually invite our most valued 
friends — is an especially pleasant meal, taking precedence 
over all others for unrestrained social enjoyment ; and Mrs. 
Rayburn’s luncheons — at which there v/ere seldom any other 


37 ^ AFTER MANY YEARS, 

guests than those I have mentioned present — were perfect 
in all things. 

“ Come, Miss Wetherby,'* said Gathwright, who always 
acted the part of host at his aunt’s board, “ let me give you 
some wine ; it will refresh you after the day’s fatigues. 
What shall it be?” 

” Orvieto, if you please, Mr. Gathwright,” replied 
Clarissa. 

” Ah !” he said, as he poured the amber liquor into a 
wine-glass beside her, ” what is the reason you ladies will 
always drink sweet wine ?” 

“Would you have us drink sour wine?” asked Sylvia, 
smiling. 

“No, not exactly sour wine. Miss Sylvia,” was the reply, 
‘ ' but wine in which the rich, fruity flavor has not been de- 
stroyed by too much sugar.” 

“ Perhaps they think they can’t absorb too much saccha- 
rine,” said Oliver. 

“ Hush, Ollie, that is impertinence,” said his sister. 
“We have no occasion to draw upon artificial sources for 
that article. If the poets are to be believed” — “ And I 

don’t know who is if they are not,” put in Gathwright, 
laughing — “ we are not like the bees, but the flowers which 
they rob of their treasures of sweetness — we are natural 
fountains, of sweetness ourselves.” 

“Bravo, Miss Sylvia!” cried Harold; “you are the 
flowers and we are the bees. ‘ Oh, would I were a bumble- 
bee ! ’ ” 

“ Harold Gathwright,” said Mrs. Rayburn, with assumed 
severity, “ if you make any more such vulgar and imperti- 
nent remarks, you shall be sent from the table with a piece 
of bread and butter to console you.” 

“ I*beg your pardon, aunty,” replied Harold ; “ I’ll not 
do so any more — I’ll be a good boy ; for I don’t like bread 
and butter, and never did, as you know.” 

“ Very well, sir ; I’ll forgive you this time. You are 
very nearly right, my dear,” turning to Sylvia; “women 
should be fountains of sweetness, though some of them are 
not, I’m sorry to say.” 

“ Don’t you think some of them are fountains of bitter- 
ness ?” asked her nephew. 

“ Perhaps they are,” she responded, her tone becoming a 
little sorrowful ; “ and perhaps there is good reason : per- 
haps the bees have sucked all the sweetness out of them, and 
left nothing but bitterness behind.” 

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn — as con- 


CHRISTMAS IN ROME 379 

versations will sometimes, even when begun with a very trivial 
remark — and Harold hastened to change the subject. 

“ Isn’t the pope a pleasant-looking old gentleman ?” he 
asked. 

“ Indeed he is,” said Clarissa. ” I never saw a face in 
' which goodness and benevolence were more strongly 
marked, and though I am not a member of his church, I 
would be glad to receive his blessing.” 

” You are right, my child,” said Mrs. Rayburn — she 
) often spoke to Clarissa as a child — ” the blessing of a good 
I man is a priceless treasure. ’ ’ 

” VV^hat magnificent heads the cardinals have !” said Oli- 
1 ver ; “they make one think of the patriarchs. The only 
j ugly man that I saw among them was your English cardinal, 
i Wiseman.” 

“ And yet he is a head and shoulders above many of his 
j confreres intellectually.” 

I “ So I have heard ; but he wouldn’t make a fine picture 
I for all that,” said Oliver, laughing. 

! “ How were you impressed by the ceremonies, Sylvia?” 

i asked Mrs. Rayburn. 

I “ They were very imposing,” was the reply, “ and I can 
i imagine any one educated a Roman Catholic being carried 
a :ay with enthusiasm ; but I was educated in the simplest 
J form of religious worship, and that grand pageant of cardi- 
j nals and bishops, diplomats and soldiers, was so brilliant 
j and novel a scene to me, that I must confess its connection 
with any thing appertaining to religion was entirely lost sight 
of in my mind.” 

“ With the exception of the publicans and sinners — who 
occupy the back seats now, as they did of old,” said Gath- 
wright, “ I suspect that the great majority of those present 
had as little thought of religion as yourself. Miss Sylvia. 
The fact is, the choice places were, in a large measure, occu- 
pied by heretics — such as could afford to wear dress-coats 
and kid gloves — while the true believers — the real Catholics 
— were driven back by soldiers, who would kill a Christian 
dressed in a blouse or a fustian jacket if he dared to intrude 
himself beyond a prescribed limit. ‘ Thus far shalt thou 
go, son of a pauper, and no farther, be thou ever so faith- 
ful.’ I think if I were a Roman Catholic I would be so 
much of an enthusiast that I would take a scourge, as the 
Lord did, and lash those dress-coated, kid-gloved gentry 
until they gave place to those who have a right to be there. 

“ Why, Harold !” cried his aunt, “ you are one of them 
yourself — and if you did that, you would certainly have to 


380 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


whip us all. But do you know what would happen to you 
if you undertook such a serious affair 

“ Yes, I should probably be killed, and then I would be 
a real, bona-fide martyr. ’ ’ 

Yes, you certainly would ; so it’s a fortunate thing for 
your friends that you are not a Roman Catholic.” 

” Well, aunty, I do really feel ashamed of myself when I 
walk into those reserved seats, leaving the real, true sons of 
the church, half-starved and in rags, kneeling about in cor- 
ners ; knowing that I have no business there where those 
poor ragged Christians are not allowed to penetrate.” 

” But surely you are a Christian ?” said Sylvia quickly. 

” I ? Certainly. How could I be any thing else when we 
have the evidences of the truth of Christianity before our 
eyes every day ? Do we not see that mankind has only ad- 
vanced where the influence of the religion of Christ has been 
brought to bear. Why, even the Jews have only improved 
where they have become citizens of Christian nations ; 
though — stiff-necked as of old — they would deny it. Chris- 
tian associations and Christian laws, based on the moral 
teachings of our Lord, have changed their character in spite 
of themselves. However, I am not a Christian in the eyes 
of the Church of Rome, and that being the case, why am I, 
because I can dress in black broadcloth and fine linen, entitled 
to approach the altar and seat myself in one of the high 
places in the synagogue, while the poor, faithful children of 
the church are kept at bay at the point of the bayonet ?” 

” There is certainly good reason for your remarks, Mr. 
Gathwright,” said Oliver ; ” but such things will be as long 
as pride holds the supreme place in the heart of man. I 
think if you could find the mainspring of most of man’s ac- 
tions, it would prove to be pride.” 

” But pride and religion are directly opposed to each 
other — at least so we are taught,” remarked Clarissa. 

” Yes,” responded Sylvia, ‘‘and that is the reason true 
piety is to be found among the lowly — the publicans and 
sinners whose cause Mr. Gathwright so warmly espoused 
just now. If you go into a church when some grand cere- 
mony is progressing you will see these poor sinners kneeling 
about in the side chapels, praying earnestly, while those who 
are better apparelled, though they assume a devout attitude, 
are staring around at every thing and everybody.” 

‘‘Ah, well! that is only human nature, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Rayburn. ‘‘ The more we have of this world’s good 
things, the less we are apt to think of the good things of the 
other world.” 


AUNT FOLLY'S DOFCAS SOCIETY. 381 

j “ True for you, Aunt Polly,’' said Harold ; ** and since 
I most of the good things you set before us have most myste- 
( riously disappeared while we have been talking, suppose we 
I go into the sitting-room and have a little music.” 

“You forget, Hal,” replied his aunt, “ that young ladies 
never sing immediately after eating.” 

i “ Oh ! I’m sure they haven’t eaten enough to hurt,” said 
Harold, leading the way into the next room, where there 
was a piano. 

Clarissa had been taking music lessons ever since her ar- 
I rival in Rome, and had recently prevailed upon her friend 
to do the same. Sylvia had complied under protest, truly 
believing that she had no voice worth cultivating, and had 
been delighted to find, after a few lessons, that she was mis- 
taken. She had in truth a rich, strong contralto, which the 
teacher assured her would be the more easily managed from 
the fact of her not having exercised it wildly after the manner 
of most young ladies. 

The two girls sang in solo and in duet several times — 
Clarissa playing the accompaniments, for Sylvia knew noth- 
ing of the piano — and then Gathwright persuaded his aunt 
to sing some of her old-fashioned ballads — those ballads 
which we are so fast losing the echoes of as the generations 
I that loved them pass away. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

AUNT folly’s DORCAS SOCIETY. 

Mrs Rayburn was full of that chiefest of all the virtues, 
charity — not only that charity which leads us to relieve the 
sufferings of our unfortunate fellpw-mortals, but that 
“ charity which covereth a multitude of sins.” The latter 
kind of charity, I think, is less frequently met with than the 
former. It is easy for those who have a sufficiency of this 
world’s goods to bestow upon those who lack ; but, oh, how 
hard it is for the very best of us to cover with the veil of 
charity the multitude of our neighbor’s sins, which, as I take 
it, is what the blessed apostle meant ! Perhaps it is because 
we all know that we have a multitude of sins of our own, 
and like to take comfort in the thought that we have plenty 
of company ; but certain it is there are very few who 
earnestly and honestly endeavor to palliate the faults and 
weaknesses of others — least of all those who know in their 


382 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


secret hearts that they themselves have faults and weak- 
nesses quite as reprehensible as those they are fond of hold- 
ing up to the scorn of the vorld. 

Where this higher order of charity is found — moral char- 
ity, I suppose we may call it — the other is certain to exist ; 
and Mrs. Rayburn possessed it in an unusual degree. She 
never spoke, even slightingly, of any one ; and if harsh stric- 
tures on the conduct of others were indulged in in her pres- 
ence, she generally managed to turn the current of conversa- 
tion into some other channel. 

A most admirable old lady she was ; and being possessed 
of an ample fortune, the poor of God’s earth had good rea- 
son to bless her wherever she went. Jew or Gentile, Cath- 
olic, Protestant, or Heathen, it was all one to her when 
human misery was to be alleviated. Though an earnest, 
active member of the established church of her native land, 
she was no bigot — knowing that men’s minds are not all 
constituted alike, nor their opportunities equal — and the 
poor idolater, however obstinately joined to his idols, was as 
much an object of pity to her as any of God’s children. 

Christian charity ! We hear much of it ; but how little 
of it really exists ; and how little understood it appears to 
be ! Of mere worldly charity — yes, that is the proper phrase 
— there is no lack wherever man has been refined by the 
softening influences of civilization ; but of Christian charity, 
spiritual charity, that charity which covereth a multitude 
of sins — how little we find ! Each different sect is charita- 
ble to its own — which is equivalent to being charitable to 
itself — a selfish kind of charity which is but one remove 
from no charity at all ; and harsh words and cruel thoughts 
are all that is generally bestowed upon such as differ from 
us in opinion. 

Mrs. Rayburn remembering those significant words, 
“ Judge not, that ye be not judged,” presumed not to call 
in question the faith of others merely because they wor- 
shipped God after a different manner to what she did, and 
while she had naught but kind words and deeds for all here,, 
she entertained a true Christian’s hope for them hereafter. 

She was always accompanied in her travels by a faithful 
old servant, who was particularly zealous in hunting up wor- 
thy objects of charity ; and though her standard of worthi- 
ness was high, she generally succeeded in finding enough 
such objects to keep her mistress’s leisure hours well em- 
ployed. 

The old lady usually established a Dorcas society wher- 
ever she was domiciled for any length of time ; but on 


AUNT FOLLY'S DOFCAS SOCLETY, 


383 


entirely different principles to the general run of such socie- 
ties — in that, instead of making cl thing for the poor herself, 
she employed them to make clol^ ing for each other, paying 
those who did the work liberally, and bestowing the fruits of 
their labor on those who were unable to work. 

Having discovered that Sylvia and Clarissa were followers 
of the good lady of Joppa, she had proposed a union of 
labors, which had been gladly acquiesced in by the young 
ladies ; and this Christmas afternoon had been appointed 
for the distribution of garments among certain poor people 
who had been recommended by Mrs. Rayburn’s servant, old 
Tabitha, who probably took an especial pride in her mission 
for the sake of the name she bore. 

As soon as the music had ceased in the sitting-room, 
Tabitha made her appearance with a pile of garments of 
every color and description on her arms. 

“ Hullo, aunty !” cried Gathwright, “what’s all this? 
Has Tabby been securing costumes for the Carnival ? If she 
has, it strikes me she’s rather premature.’’ 

“ No, Hal,’’ replied his aunt, taking the bundle from the 
old servant, who courtesied, and stood waiting at the door, 
“ these have nothing to do with the Carnival. They will 
serve a more useful purpose, I hope.’’ 

“ Oh I see !’’ said Hal, picking up one or two of the gar- 
ments, that had been laid on a table, and examining them, 
“ Dorcas is still at work.’’ 

“ Yes,’’ replied the old lady, smiling : “ the young ladies 
and I have been getting these ready to distribute among 
some very worthy poor people, who will be here presently.’’ 

“ Ah ! they will be here presently, will they ? — to perfume 
your chambers with garlic ; I don’t know that I can stand 
it, aunty.’’ 

“ Most earthly pleasures carry with them their counter- 
balancing evil,’’ said Oliver, laughing. 

“I don’t quite comprehend the connection.’’ 

“ Don’t you think it a pleasure to witness the happiness 
of others ?’’ asked Sylvia. 

“ Ay, to be sure,’’ replied Gathwright, who, like most 
men, had never studied the science of true charity, deeming 
the demands of that virtue sufficiently satisfied by tossing a 
stray coin to a beggar now and then. “ I perceive,’’ he 
continued, holding up a pretty bodice, trimmed in gay col- 
ors, “ that you consult the tastes of these people for gaudy 
apparel.’’ 

“ Certainly,’’ said Mrs. Rayburn. “ Charity loses half 
its virtue when we force people to receive from necessity 


3^4 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


that which gives them no real pleasure. That little bodice 
was made by Sylvia for a bright little girl who will feel as 
happy as a princess when she puts it on.” 

This was a sly shot the old lady fired at her nephew, and 
it had the desired effect ; he was immediately interested in 
the bodice, and the little girl who was to wear it. 

” I didn’t know you were such an artist in this line. Miss 
Sylvia,” he said, holding the garment up, as if for general 
observation and admiration. 

Sylvia blushed, and said she had been accustomed to 
needlework from her childhood ; and Harold, like all new 
converts, was going on to expatiate on the suddenly revealed 
beauties of the bodice, when old Tabitha, who had been all 
this time standing near the door, came up to her mistress 
and whispered something in her ear. 

” Go and see, Tabitha,” said Mrs. Rayburn, ” and if it 
is so, keep them until all have arrived. You can give them 
some bread and cheese, and some red wine, to keep them 
busy in the mean time. ’ ’ 

After a little, Tabitha returned, and said the people had 
all come, and all been refreshed with bread and cheese and 
red wine, and her mistress told her to bring them in. In a 
few minutes fifteen or twenty people — old men and women, 
and little children — made their appearance, and the distribu- 
tion of clothing was proceeded with without delay. 

Gathwright seemed to have become all at once an enthusi- 
astic Dorcastrian, and was particularly active in the work of 
distribution. 

” Here, little chap,” he said, handing a velveteen jacket 
to a black-eyed boy, for whom it seemed to have been de- 
signed, ‘‘ I know this was intended for )^ou.” 

‘‘ Si, signor.," said the little fellow, his great black eyes 
sparkling with delight, ” mille grazie, signor.” 

” Never mind the thanks, little man,” said Harold ; 

they are not due to me, at any rate ; but try it on.” 

The boy did as he was bid, and catching sight of himself 
in a large mirror that hung at the end of the room, his big 
eyes seemed to grow twice as big with astonishment and joy. 

The old men and old women seemed more than content 
with the warm cloaks provided for them ; and having 
called down the blessings of all the saints upon the heads of 
the signorine beneficente, lent their aid in arraying the little 
ones in their new garments, for which purpose they retired 
behind a large screen at the farther end of the room. 

Sylvia’s bodice Gathwright had purposely hidden under 
every thing else, and it was the last article brought forth. 


AUNT POLLTS DORCAS SOCIETY. 385 

“ Ah he said, displaying it at last with a special air of 
distinction, “ here is something wonderfully pretty ; whose 
is it ? Let me see, now, if I can select the owner and he 
fastened his smiling eyes on a “ nut-brown maid ” who had 
heretofore kept in the background, and had as yet received 
nothing. 

The rich color slowly mounted to the cheeks of the girl, 
as she gazed with pleasure-sparkling eyes at the treasure ; 
but she still held back, hesitating to come forward and claim 
it on Harold’s authority alone. 

‘ ‘ Come, Amina, ’ ’ said Sylvia, perceiving this, “ it is for 
you, child.” 

‘ ‘ I was going to say a blind man would have known that, ’ ’ 
said Gathwright ; while the happy girl, having been put in 
possession, turned to kiss the fair hand that had wrought so 
well to please her ; ” but I fear that would seem rather im- 
probable. However, I’m certain a deaf and dumb man 
would.” 

” Though no one should speak a word to him,” added 
Oliver, laughing. ” But aren’t you going to try on your 
bodice, Amina ?’ ’ he asked of the girl, who had folded the 
garment, and hung it on her arm. 

” We certainly shall not let you go until we have seen you 
dressed in it,” said Gathwright. 

The girl looked at the screen and blushed. 

” Oh, I see ! that is not sufficiently retired.” 

” She is very right,” put in Mrs. Rayburn ; ” but if she 
desires, she can go into the next room.” 

” Come, Amina, ’’said Sylvia, and led the way into the 
next room. In a few minutes they returned. 

- ” By Jove !” exclaimed the Englishman, as he looked at 
the girl, whose face seemed illuminated with delight — for 
she had already caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, 
” what a difference a little bit of velvet and ribbon does 
make, to" be sure! She was pretty before, but now she is 
beautiful. Why don’t you paint her, Maxwell ?” 

” She would make a beautiful picture just as she stands 
now,” said Clarissa Wetherby, who had been sitting on the 
piano-stool silently enjoying the scene. “If I were a 
painter I would want no better subject.” 

“ Perhaps I will paint her,” said the artist, looking at the 

B speaker, and thinking what a lovely companion picture she 
herself would make, each being a perfect type of her class. 
” Amina is a protegee of Sylvia’s, and of course I will have 
I to get her permission.” 

‘‘As far as I am concerned, Ollie, there will be no diffi' 


386 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


culty/’ said his sister ; ‘‘ and I think Amina may be easily 
prevailed upon to sit/^ She then turned to the girl, who 
seemed to be nervously aware that she was the subject of 
conversation, and asked her if she would object to sit for 
her picture. 

“ No, signor ina.,'' replied Amina, “ not if you desire it. 
I have always refused to be a model for the painters — and 
my mother would not have permitted it even if I had been 
willing — but I can refuse you nothing.” 

” Oh ! I only want to paint you just as you are,” said Oli- 
ver, who understood her objections to being a model ; “ I 
will paint a portrait of you, that is all.” 

” Very well, signor ; whenever you wish.” 

Mrs. Rayburn had been giving some instructions to old 
Tabitha, and the humble guests were now turned over to the 
latter, who led them out, and having furnished each with as 
much provision as he or she could well carry, dismissed 
them. 

” Well, aunty,” said Harold, when they were gone, ” you 
have given me a pleasure to-day that I did not anticipate.” 

” Oho !” replied his aunt, “ pleasure indeed ! Come, 
don’t be deceitful, Hal ; how about the garlic ?” 

” I never noticed it at all. But don’t be hard on me. 
Aunt Polly, and do give me credit for being honest once in 
a while. I assure you there was something poetic about 
this little affair of yours.” 

” All charity is poetic,” asserted Aunt Polly. 

‘‘How so?” 

” Charity is beautiful, and all things beautiful are poetic.” 

” That certainly is most excellent logic,” said Oliver. 

“I’m willing to admit that,” replied Harold, “but I 
must confess it has never occurred to me to associate Dor- 
cas societies at home with any thing poetic ; but perhaps that 
is a good deal owing to the want of taste displayed in the 
style of garments issued by them, and the absence of all 
poetic sentiment, as well as the sad lack of beauty or pictu- 
resqueness in the recipients.” 

“ That is just it, I think,” said Sylvia. “ The taste of 
your poor people at home is not consulted — only their com- 
fort — because, I presume, they have no taste in such matters ; 
but that does not alter Mrs. Rayburn’s theory at all. The 
poetry is in the beauty of the sentiment. Faith, Hope, 
and Charity have always been favorite themes with the 
poets, but you would deny the last its just claims unless it 
comes in a pleasing shape.” 

“ Well, well,” laughed Harold, “ I will have to give up 


AUNT POLLY'S DOPCAS SOCIETY, 387 

the argument. I am unable to contend against such adver- 
saries ; but I must be allowed to hold to my opinion, that 
there is no poetry in a frieze jacket or a flannel petticoat, 
whereas Amina’s bodice was a perfect poem in needlework. 
Did you ever try to write poetry, Miss Sylvia ?” 

“ Don’t you think everybody has tried at one time or an- 
other ?” 

“ That’s no answer to my question ; but at the same time 
it is equivalent to an acknowledgment. What do you say. 
Maxwell ?” 

“ I don’t know that Sylvy has ever tried to write poetry ; 
but I have no doubt but that she could if she did try,” 
replied Oliver, who had been talking in an undertone to 
Clarissa. ” I know she used to have the gift of telling most 
marvellous stories when we were children, and I often won- 
der if she has lost it, or if she is holding it in reserve, in- 
tending to astonish us all some day.” 

” Hush your nonsense, Ollie, ” said Sylvia, blushing. 

” I’m sure you could, Sylvia, if you would,” said 
Clarissa. 

” Sylvia asked you a question just now, Hal,” said Mrs. 
Rayburn. 

” What was that, aunty ?” 

” She asked if you didn’t think everybody had tried to 
write poetry at one time or another, and you gave her no 
answer. ’ ’ 

” Well, I for one never did, at any rate.” 

“Now, Harold,” remonstrated the old lady, “surely 
your memory must be short. Did you never try to write 
poetry when you were a boy ?’ ’ 

“No, Aunt Polly, I never did — at least, if I did I have 
forgotten it ; but it has been so long since I was a boy that 
that might well happen.” 

“ Well, my memory is better than yours, sir. You must 
know, young ladies, that when Hal was a boy of sixteen”- — 
“ Come, come, aunty,” cried Harold, trying to interrupt 
her ; but she went on — “ when he was a boy of sixteen he 
was in love with a girl and with cricket at the same time. 
It was hard to tell which he loved the most, but he wrote a 
poem to the former — I think I have a copy of it somewhere, 
and — ” 

“O aunty!” said the nephew, “don’t say any more. 
I’m sure the young ladies will take your word for it, and 
you needn’t show it, if that’s what you are about to prom- 
ise.” 

. ” Very well, boy. I’ll not show it, as the idea seems to 


388 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


frighten you so much — though you pretend to know nothing 
about it — but I must tell.” 

” Yes — go on — tell us, Mrs. Rayburn,” cried the two 
girls and Oliver in a breath. 

” As I told you,” continued the old lady, with a merry 
twinkle in her eyes, ” he was in love with a girl and with 
cricket at the same time. Now, my dears, he wrote a poem 
to the girl, whose name was Nora Jennings, and the only 
thing he could think of to rhyme to her was ‘ more o’ them 
innings.’ ” 

” O aunty, aunty !” cried Harold, amid the burst of 
laughter that followed, ” that’s too bad, and I must protest, 
for 1 really have no recollection of my youthful peccadillo.” 


CHAPTER XXH. 

A REPENTANT SINNER. f 

One day when Clarissa Wetherby returned home from a 
stroll in company with Sylvia in the Villa Borghese, the ser- 
vant informed her that a gentleman was closeted with her 
father in his study. 

When she heard this, but one thought occurred to her — it 
was Yorke ; and her heart sank within her. This man had 
come to disturb her life again, to make her more unhappy 
than she already was. She asked no questions of the ser- 
vant — who evidently expected her to do so, and was ready 
with a glowing description of the magnificent signor on the 
tip of her tongue — and learning that Mrs. Gwyn had gone 
out, went straight to her own room. 

Her first impulse, as soon as she had closed the door of 
her chamber, was to kneel at her bedside and pray. She 
had learned the comfort of this resource from Sylvia, who 
without hinting at her fears that her friend’s spirit was op- 
pressed by some secret sorrow, had gently turned her 
thoughts that way, and she had been astonished at the sense 
of relief which it brought. 

It is something wonderful, this power of prayer, and to 
the unbeliever incomprehensible. What is it ? Is it that 
prayer begets faith, and faith hope ? We are told that it is 
the working of God’s Holy Spirit in the soul of man, and 
this is the true solution of the mystery. 

When man lays aside his worldly pride and goes to his 
God, acknowledging his errors and pleading his weakness, 


A REPEN'TANT SINNER. 


3'-9 

that God, who knows what a poor, pitiful, helpless creature 
he is, is satisfied with the simple confession. He smiles 
upon the wretch who at last has found out that he is nothing 
when he thought himself almost a god ; and the light of that 
smile, shed upon the soul which was dead, gives it life and 
strength, and the man, though he knows not why it is, arises 
from his prostration at the feet of his Maker a new man — 
humbler, but stronger and more hopeful. 

Behold the stricken mother, who has lost her darling — ^her 
only one — behold her ! cast down, utterly heart-broken, 
without a hope for the future, as she thinks. Let her go to 
her secret chamber and commune with her God. What 
though she complain and ask why He has bereft her ! He 
knows her weakness, poor soul ! and forgives her accusing 
spirit — for she acknowledges at least His almighty power — 
and she, who knelt a complainant, becomes a suppliant, and 
rises at last a glorified saint of resignation. 

Clarissa knew who was closeted with her father — knew 
as well as if she had seen him. She had never been able to 
explain to herself what it was she feared in connection with 
this man ; but she knew she feared him, and, like all unde- 
fined fears, hers, exaggerated by imagination, were possibly 
greater than there was really any cause for. She looked 
upon him as a sort of devil by whom her father was pos- 
sessed. Perhaps she was right ; for what difference is there 
between the devils of that unknown world and the devils of 
this ? — what difference, save that the former are beyond hope 
of redemption, while to the latter is still held out a hope ? — 
the difference between the fallen angel and the fallen man. 

But let us see what was passing between Mr. Wetherby and 
his unwelcome guest. 

“I’m sorry you have been disappointed, Ragan,” said 
Wetherby, “ but I don’t know but that it is better so ; your 
wife, you know, may be living, and-^” 

“ I tell you she is dead !” exclaimed the other, petulantly 
interrupting him. “ I expect to receive the proofs of her 
death soon, and I will show them to you, for I have a par- 
ticular reason now for satisfying you on this point.” 

Mr. Wetherby, who had been playing absently with a 
paper-cutter on his desk, looked up at these words, and a 
strange expression of anxiety flashed across his face ; but 
he said nothing, and his guest continued. 

“Yes,” he said, “I’m tired of having this everlasting 
wife — d — n her — thrown up at me all the time, and, as I said, 
I have a particular reason for wishing to satisfy you that 
she is dead. But we will talk about that when I have 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


390 

the proofs in my hand ; and in the mean time you will 
oblige me by remembering that my name is Yorke — Philip 
Yorke. I don’t see why we should be obliged to stick to 
a disagreeable name just because our d — d daddies chose to 
wear it. What may have suited them may not suit us, and 
as I consult your taste in that way, I think you might have 
as much consideration for me.” 

” Wether by is my true name,” said the other. 

” Then,” cried Yorke, turning upon him quickly, and re- 
garding him with astonishment, ” your name is not — 

” No,” interrupted his companion. ” That alias I as- 
sumed after the disgrace I brought upon myself and my fam- 
ily, in consequence of which I was turned out of my father’s 
house. Ah !” he continued, shading his eyes with his hand, 
” if I had been more leniently dealt with then, I might have 
atoned for that wrong, and been guiltless of a far greater 
one. ’ ’ 

“You mean — ” 

“ Yes, yes ; you know too well what I mean ; for you were 
the devil that tempted me.” 

“ Don’t call hard names, Wetherby ; they are not calcu- 
lated to encourage good feelings. But,” continued the 
speaker, with a sneer, ‘ ‘ since you are so awfully repentant, 
why don’t you go to work and set matters right ?” 

Wetherby looked at his guest a few minutes before he re- 
plied, and then he said, “You know, Ra — Yorke, that I 
would have done so long ago but for you ; you, who 
tempted me in the first place, have ever been at my right 
hand, and guided me whether I would or no.” 

“ Do you know what you are, Wetherby ?” asked Yorke, 
with a sneering laugh well befitting the character his victim 
had accused him of enacting. 

“ Alas !” was the response, and the speaker bent his head 
in shame, “ 1 know but too well what I am.” 

“ Faugh ! I don’t mean that. But I’ll tell you what you 
are : you are a miserable coward, and you would be a fool 
and give up all the profits of your labor if I would let 
you.” 

“ Labor ! Do you call theft labor ?” 

“ If I do, I am not the only one who does — yes, and hon- 
est labor too, they call it. But come : you say if it were 
not for me you would make restitution — do this act of jus- 
tice, as you have lately learned to call it.” 

“Yes, I certainly would; for this wealth, which is not 
my own, is a burden to me.” 

“ Then why don’t. you get rid of it? Hand it over to 


A REPENTANT SINNER, 


391 


me, and I assure you I will find it no burden ; and I’ll 
promise never to bother you again — it would hardly be 
likely I should ; ha, ha !” His satanic laugh reached the 
ears of the sweet soul who was praying against him, and 
made her shudder. “ But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” con- 
tinued Yorke : ” I will let you take your own course, on one 
condition.” 

” What condition ?” 

” One that will free you of me — your devil, as you call 
me, but no matter — and leave you at liberty to do as you 
please.” 

I ” Well,” said the other, without looking up. He was sit- 
ting at his desk, on which he leaned heavily wuth his elbow, 
shading his eyes with his hand. 

Yorke waited a few minutes, as if considering how best to 
I approach the subject, which was certainly a delicate one to 
j make him hesitate, and then he proceeded, 
i ‘‘I wish to marry,” he said, ” to settle down and become 
' a respectable citizen of some country — I’m not particular on 
that score — one country is as good as another so long as one 
has plenty of money. Do you understand ?’ ’ 

^ ”Yes.” 

” Well, I don’t know of any place that would suit me bet- 
ter for permanent residence than Switzerland : it is a cen- 
tral locality, from which one can take a run to any of the 
great cities without much inconvenience.” Yorke stopped 
speaking to give his companion a chance to say something, 
if he so desired ; but as he did not seem to have any such 
desire, continued, after a moment’s silence: ” If I owned 
that little villa of yours at Lausanne, and had a pretty wife 
to be the mistress of it, I think I should be perfectly con- 
tent for the balance of my days ; don’t you think so ?” 

” Perhaps so ; I don’t know.” 

” I’m not so much disappointed by the failure of my 
matrimonial project with Tulip’s step-daughter as you may 
think ; and I should not have minded it at all if I hadn’t 
been made a fool of by an infernal painter and a damned 
French spy. I don’t think I should have got along with the 
girl. However, there is a young lady who would suit me, 
and with whom your influence would be worth something if 
you should choose to exert it in my favor.” Yorke, when 
he had reached this point, looked at his auditor as if he 
wished that he would say something ; but he looked in 
vain. Wetherby still sat in the same position, with his back 
half turned, and uttered not a word. 

” Come,” continued the former, when he found the other 


392 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


had nothing to say, “ it’s of no use beating about the bush, 
so I will come to the point at once. You know what I 
mean, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I will not ask for your 
influence in my favor, but you must not use your influence 
against me, and I’ll take my chances like any other man, 
but when I have gained her consent, you must give yours. 
When that is settled, you can give her for her dot the little 
villa and twenty thousand dollars, and then you can be as 
big a fool as you please ; and when you have made a pauper 
of yourself, you may come and live with us ; and she shall 
never know, at least from me, any thing that will make her 
ashamed of her father.” The only reply he got to this 
proposition was a groan. ” Well, what are you groaning 
about ?” he cried impatiently. ” Isn’t it a fair offer ?” 

” My God ! my God !” exclaimed the wretched man, 
clasping his forehead between his hands in his agony, 
” must the sins of the guilty father indeed be visited upon 
the innocent child ?” 

” Pshaw !” said Yorke disgustedly ; ” what are you mak- 
ing all this fuss about ? I will make your daughter a good 
husband — and a husband’s a husband in most women’s 
eyes, if they only have all their wants supplied. Once com- 
fortably settled in life, I’ll be a different man ; I’ll reform in 
my way, you can reform in yours.” 

” But you know very well, Yorke, that this is impossi- 
ble,” reyflied Wetherby, tem.porizing — he was in a terrible 
strait : what else could he do ? — ” you have no proof that 
your wife is really dead.” 

” But I soon will have — I told you that a little while 
ago,” said the other angrily; 

Had Wetherby been a man with the least particle of 
moral courage he would have given a positive refusal to the 
offer made him, and defied the man who made it, accepting 
the consequences ; but he had not a spark of courage of any 
sort ; he was weak — weak as the weakest, frailest woman. 
He had been strong — strong to do a great evil — once ; but 
the strength had not been his own : it had been borrowed 
from this man who now pressed him so hard, who had been 
his adviser and abettor in perpetrating a heinous crime, and 
who had preyed upon him ever since. 

He had repented of his sin as soon as he was safe from 
pursuit, and free to enjoy its fruits, and would have atoned 
for it, as far as the mere act of restitution could be con- 
sidered atonement for the wrong done ; but his accomplice, 
suspecting what was going on in the mind of his weak tool, 
had no idea of relinquishing his share of the spoil. He 


A REPENTANT SINNER, 


393 


was well aware of Wetherby’s great absorbing love for his 
daughter : it was the one strong point in his character. He 
would have laid down his life at any moment for her, and 
he would have died twice over — ay, a dozen times — if such a 
sacrifice could alone have kept her from a knowledge of his 
own unworthiness. Yorke, acting upon what he considered the 
other’s weakness, just hinted that under certain circum- 
stances she might become aware of her father’s true charac- 
ter ; and it was enough. 

The father had no idea that the daughter already suspect- 
‘ ed that all was not right, and never asked himself whether it 
would not be better to confess his sin to her, and tell her of 
his repentance, trusting to her to forgive him for the wrong 
he had done her, than to submit longer to the tyranny of 
Yorke. If such a thought ever occurred to him, it was ban- 
ished before it had well formed itself in his mind ; for he 
never doubted that the love Clarissa had for him, and which 
was the one thing on earth he prized, would give place to 
horror the instant she should be made acquainted with cer- 
tain facts connected with his former life. He knew little of 
the love of woman : how, like the ivy, it clings more closely, 
more fondly, to the ruined shrine than it ever did or ever 
could to the same shrine in all the perfection of its pristine 
beauty ; shorn of that beauty, degraded, cast down, it be- 
comes all the more dear. 

One thing Yorke had never been able to prevail upon 
Wetherby to do — to divide the spoils of their mutual vil- 
lany ; but all his demands for money had been satisfied, 
though of late very reluctantly, and he had been content 
with the golden eggs, leaving the goose to lay them in com- 
parative peace. 

Having sat some time in silence, and received no response 
to his last remark, this gentleman got up and prepared to 
take his departure. “ I didn’t intend,” he said, as he drew 
on his gloves, ” to broach this subject to-day : my intention 
was to wait until I had the proofs of my wife’s death to 
show you. I have been hurried into it somehow ; but it 
doesn’t much matter, after all : one time is as good as an- 
other, and you will have all the more time to think over it. 
Remember one thing,” he added, as he opened the door, 
” I’m not to be trifled with.” 

After his visitor had left him, Wetherby sat for some time 
buried in thought — thought which was evidently accom- 
panied by the most intense mental agony. After a while he 
arose from his seat, and when he did, he staggered so that 
he was obliged to hold on to his desk to steady himself. 


394 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Forgetting that it was near the dinner hour — forgetting 
every thing except his overwhelming misery, he went forth 
into the piazza, and drawing his hat down over his eyes, 
turned his steps towards ancient Rome. 

Keeping in the streets least frequented by strangers, where 
dirty children and scolding hags instinctively made way for 
him, he walked rapidly on. He did not seem to have any 
distinct idea as to whither he was going, and crossing the 
Forum, he passed the ruins of temple and arch by unno- 
ticed. Taking the Via Appia, he strode along between the 
rows of half-demolished tombs until he stood in front of that 
of Cecilia Metella, when, for the first time since he had left 
the house, he raised his head and looked about him. 

It was that hour of the day when everybody — that is, 
everybody who possessed the means to indulge in regular 
meals — was engaged in the sensual occupation of minister- 
ing to the wants of the animal man, and the Via Appia was 
deserted, not even a straggling shepherd disturbing the 
peaceful quiet of the scene with the shrill note of his pipe. 

Finding himself alone in this lonely place, the man sat 
down and gave vent to his woe. 

The first burst of grief, like a pent-up torrent suddenly let 
loose, overwhelmed him for a time ; but gradually it sub- 
sided, and as he became more calm he lifted his bowed 
head and gazed earnestly at the sepulchre of that woman 
whose name, unknown to history, yet remains carved in 
almost imperishable marble, and has been embalmed in the 
//^^perishable verse of the poet : 

— “ Who was she, the lady of the dead, 

Tombed in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair? 

Worthy of a king’s — or more — a Roman’s bed? 

What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 

What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 

How lived — how loved — how died she? Was she not 
So honor’d — and conspicuously there, 

Where meaner relic must not dare to rot, 

Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?” 

This man, so full of sorrow — sorrow of his own making — 
was well acquainted with the lines, and conned them slowly 
to himself while he thought .of his daughter — as chaste and 
fair as she who lay mouldering there. 

‘‘ Alas, my child !” he cried at last, in a tone of anguish 
most piteous, “ must you, my innocent, my blameless dar- 
ling, suffer for my iniquities ? No, no ! O my God, no ! 
Let me die, O Lord ! but spare her and he arose, clinch- 
ing his thin hands^ until the sinews and veins looked as 


A REPENTANT SINNER, 


395 


though they would burst through the skin. ‘‘Yes,” he 
continued, with a spirit and energy quite new to him, ‘‘ yes, 
let me die ! let me die !” 

He sat down again, and for a long time remained buried 
in thought. ‘‘Ah, Ragan !” he broke forth again, at last, 
and a ghostly smile was on his lips, ‘‘ you think you have 
me in your power, and through me my poor helpless girl ; 
but you will find yourself mistaken. I have one refuge 
whither you dare not follow me — and if you dare, you can- 
not trouble me and he actually laughed, a thing he had not 
done for years ; but what a laugh it was ! There was no joy 
in it ; it was the dry, joyless laugh of a maniac who thinks 
he has triumphed over imaginary difficulties. 

After this he never spoke again, but remained wrapt in 
thought — thought which at times convulsed and contorted 
his features — until the sun went down. Twilight stole 
quietly upon him, and then night settled down upon the 
face of the earth, and still he was there. The moon rose, 
and the old tombs looked like the spectres of giants in the 
pale rays of her dim light ; but not until he heard the mel- 
lowed notes of the bugles answering each other from ‘‘ an- 
cient hill and tower” did he move. Then he got up and 
turned his face towards the city. 

” Yes,” he muttered to himself as he walked along look- 
ing on the ground, ‘‘ that is all I can do, and that will settle 
all — that is the end of all things, sooner or later. What is 
the short agony of death compared to the prolonged misery 
of living in disgrace ? Why should I skulk about on the 
face of the earth ? — I, who am afraid to mingle among my 
fellow-men, lest one of them should recognize me for what I 
am, and proclaim me among his fellows. Ah ! ah ! how 
much better to die !” 

So he walked on, communing with his soul. 

‘‘ But I must have a little time,” he said, breaking into 
colloquy with his perturbed spirit again. ‘‘ There is much 
to be done — much to be done and undone. O God ! if it 
were only as easy to do right as to do wrong ! My poor 
darling,” he continued, after a few minutes’ silence, ” but 
for you this victory would be easy ! Alas ! alas ! to save 
you 1 must myself be eternally lost— O God !” 

He stood still for an instant and clasped his head between 
his two hands, while tears ran down his cheeks. It was but 
for an instant ; but in that instant he seemed to experience 
an eternity of agony. That passed he resumed his walk ; 
the coward — for Yorke had told the truth for once in his 
life ; he had beeii a coward all his life, and the very resolu- 


396 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


tion he had come to was an evidence of it — the coward had 
plucked up a spurious courage from despair, and pursued 
his way with one desperate resolution uppermost in his 
thoughts. 

He passed the ruins of the Palace of the Caesars, and 
heeded not the melodious nightingale, pouring out his soul 
in rhythmic cadence, to the moon ; but when he came within 
view of the Coliseum, he stopped, and looking up at its 
massive walls, seemed to calculate the height of the leap 
from its topmost stone. 

“ Not yet, not yet,” he muttered, and still pursued his 
way. As he passed under the Arch of Titus, a man stepped 
out of the shadows, and touching his hat with an assumed 
air of humility, demanded, '' Un piccolo pezzo di denar o^ 
signor^ per carita." 

He knew the fellow was no beggar, he simply asking in 
the name of charity what he would take by force if re- 
fused ; but he felt no inclination to dispute — if he had had 
the courage to resist — the authority of the brigand, and 
handed over his well-filled purse, saying, as he did so, 
” Take it, friend, and I only hope it v/ill do you more good 
than it has ever done me. ’ ’ 

” Grazie^ signor^'' said the man, and disappeared among 
the shadows again, while the victim of his robbery, never 
heeding, went on his sorrowful way. 

When he entered the city he began to look about him, as 
if in search of something ; but it was some time ere he 
found what he sought. That was a little apothecary shop 
in a narrow, filthy street. Its aspect was very unlike that 
to which we are accustomed in such places. There was no 
glare of light, no brilliant-colored bottles, none of that 
bright attractiveness which usually proclaims the place where 
elixirs and specifics may be had, to cure ” all the ills that 
flesh is heir to” and give the dying wretch a new lease of 
life : it was a dark and dismal hole, where one might well 
imagine death to be lurking in ambush, awaiting its victims. 

Wetherby entered. A miserable lamp — one of the old 
Etruscan pattern, picturesque, but almost useless for light- 
giving purposes— shed a sickly gleam on a filthy counter, 
which was strewn with unclean vials and other disgusting 
paraphernalia ; while all the evil gases of pandemonium 
seemed to have usurped the place of oxygen, filling the at- 
mosphere with odors full of offence. 

From an obscure corner a man, who might have acted the 
part of the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, came forth to 
meet him. He said a few words to the man in a low tone. 


A REPENTANT SINNER, 397 

“ JNo, signor,,"" was the reply, with a dubious shake of the 
head, “ I couldn’t do it.” 

Wetherby felt in his pocket for his purse. “ Ah!” he 
said when he missed it, “I forgot. But it is no matter ;” 
and he unbuttoned his coat, which he had worn tightly but- 
toned across his chest, the evening air being chilly. It was 
well he had done so, for thus his watch had escaped the 
clutches of the robber. He unhooked it now, and laid it on 
the counter. “ It is yours,” he said, looking at the apothe- 
cary, “ if you will do it for me.” 

The poor fellow was half starved evidently, and he 
looked at the glittering prize with avidity. He looked long, 
but never offered to touch it, and a terrible struggle seemed 
to be going on in his mind. At last he appeared to have 
come to some decision. “ Wait, signor,” he said ; and go- 
ing to the back of the shop, he opened a narrow door, 
through which a faint glimmer of light penetrated. 

As he did so his customer heard a low moan, coming, ap- 
parently, from the chamber into which the door opened, and 
at the same moment the apothecary heaved a great sigh, 
and “ O Dio !” broke from his lips in a wailing voice full 
of heart-anguish. 

After an interval of ten or fifteen minutes he returned 
with a minute vial, containing some colorless liquid, in his 
hand. The mouth of the vial was closed by a little me- 
chanical contrivance to keep the contents secure, and the 
man trembled all over while he showed the other how to 
open it. 

Wetherby opened and shut it several times to make sure 
that he knew how to manage it, and then asked, “ Is it swift 
and certain ?” 

“ Si, signor,” was the response. 

“^ery well,” he said, and pointing to the watch, left the 
shop. 

When he entered his apartments on the Piazza di Spagna 
his daughter met him on the threshold. 

“ O papa 1” she cried, “ why did you go off without your 
dinner ?” 

“ I was not very well, darling,” he replied, “ and I went 
for a walk. I feel better now.” 

“Ah, I’m so glad you feel better! But you look pale, 
papa, and I know you have had nothing to eat. I wish you 
wouldn’t go on these lonesome walks. I wish you would 
go with me sometimes.” 

“ So I will, dear,” replied the father, taking a seat, while 
the daughter brought a stool and took her place at his knee ; 


398 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


** we will begin to-morrow and go to the Villa Borghese to- 
gether.” 

“ Will you really go there with me, papa ?” 

” Certainly ; haven’t I just told you so ?” and he stooped 
over and kissed her. “Now I think I could take a little 
tea and toast, if you or Mrs. Gwyn will get them for me.” 

“I’ll get them,” she said with alacrity, delighted to find him 
in a mood so different to that which was usual to him, and 
she went about the duty singing softly to herself. 

A sudden change had come over the man — he absolutely 
seemed happy. But what would have been his daughter’s 
feelings had she known that this change was owing to a fear- 
ful resolve he had made, and to the fact of his possessing 
the means of carrying out that resolve at any moment ? 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE CARNIVAL. 

Yorke had received the letter signed William Simpson, 
and sent by Monsieur Pince. He was like a good many 
other people in one respect : he was always looking for some 
lucky turn in the wheel of fortune to throw wealth into his 
lap, and swallowed the bait at once ; thinking his hour of 
luck had come at last — that some good-natured somebody 
had left him and his sister heirs to something. It was a 
good stroke mentioning his sister in connection with himself 
in the communication ; it helped to convince him that he 
wjs right in his supposition — some old curmudgeon of an 
uncle or singed-cat of an aunt had died, rememberin^this 
hopeful scion of the race in the last supreme moment. 

He hurried off to Paris without delay, and having arrived 
there, called at once on Monsieur Grandpre. Monsieur 
Grandpre was delighted to see him — as he always was de- 
lighted to see those friends whom he could introduce to the 
notice of the police whenever it suited his purpose. 

“ Has any one been here to ask for my address lately ?” 
asked Yorke. ” However,” he added, seeming to remem- 
ber something, “ it’s hardly time yet. A gentleman ap- 
pointed to meet me in Paris in six or eight days from the 
date of his letter. I was to leave my address with you ; but 
there are several days to spare yet.” 

“ Let me see,” ^said Monsieur Grandpre musingly ; 


THE CARNIVAL. 


399 


** two gentlemen did call to get your address several 
days ago, and left a letter for you ; I suppose it was 
mailed.” 

” Yes, that must have been the letter I received. What 
were the strangers like ?” 

“ I was not here at the time, but my nephew, Eduard, 
told me one was a foreigner — an Englishman or an Ameri- 
can, he couldn’t tell which — the other was a Frenchman. 1 
had a strange adventure myself that day ; but I don’t sup- 
pose that had any connection with the visit of these gentle- 
men, so it’s not worth while to mention it.” 

Monsieur Grandpre was rather sore on the subject of his 
disappointment on the day in question ; and as his nephew 
had taken the liberty of laughing at him, he had summarily 
banished it as a theme of conversation. Had he or his 
nephew been aware of the abstraction of the letter, they 
would certainly have connected the visit of the strangers 
with the invitation to dinner ; but Eduard had dropped his 
packet of letters in the post-offiqe without looking over 
them, and so their suspicions were not aroused. 

Yorke waited two days, and then called again, but still no 
one had been to seek him. Then he called every day, and 
when the utmost limit of the time fixed had elapsed, and no 
Mr. Simpson had put in an appearance, he began to get im- 
patient. But he was soon to discover that Mr. Simpson 
was a myth, and that the whole affair was a cunning 
scheme, concocted by certain parties to get him out of their 
way ; and his impatience was changed to rage — not because 
he had lost an unwilling bride, but because he had been 
made a fool of, as he told Wetherby. 

One day when his impatience had almost given place to 
disgust, and he had wellnigh made up his mind that Mr. 
Simpson was a humbug and the inheritance a dream, he 
received a letter from Tulip. 

That gentleman wrote to him in an irate mood, laying the 
blame of all that had occurred — the details of Elenor’s 
escape he related in his letter — to his, Yorke’ s, absence from 
his post of duty. 

Yorke, as I said, was in a rage. He tore the letter into 
little bits, which he cast to the winds, cursing the author for 
a d — d idiot. When his rage had subsided somewhat, he 
took the matter more philosophically, concluded to cut 
Tulip henceforward and forever, and went in search of his 
banker, Wetherby. 

It was on his journey to Lausanne — where he learned that 
the gentleman he sought had gone to Italy — that he con- 


400 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


ceived the idea of marrying Clarissa, thus settling all diffi- 
culties and getting rid of all complications. 

The only difficulty in the way of this happy conclusion 
was that wife — poor soul ! — whom he had left in America, 
and as to whose death his desired father-in-law seemed to be 
in doubt. He thought he could settle this matter ; and 
from Florence he wrote to an old-time confederate in New 
York, directing him to send certificates of Mrs. Ragan’s 
death, forged or otherwise, promising ample remuneration 
for this simple service. He directed these certificates to be 
sent to Monsieur Grandpre, Paris. He did not know ex- 
actly where he might be when the desired certificates were 
sent, and it was easy enough to make a run to the French 
capital, and perhaps might be agreeable. 

We have seen the issue of this new scheme of Ragan, alias 
Yorke ; he had driven his victim to desperation, and he was 
astonished at their next interview, which took place on the 
evening of the day following, to note a great change in the 
man. 

Wetherby had deposited the little vial, for which he had 
paid such an extraordinary price, in a receptacle that he had 
contrived under the lining of his vest, and he now felt much 
as a superstitious person would feel if assured that he carried 
about him a certain charm against the influence of the evil 
one. The effect of possessing that little bit of glass was in- 
deed wonderful, and Clarissa as well as Yorke marvelled at 
it. One would have thought that some potent spirit was 
bottled up in it, subject to the command of the possessor, 
like the genius of Aladdin’s lamp. 

A few days after Yorke’ s arrival in Rome he dined with 
the Wetherbys. He had not been invited ; but he was one 
of those people who never hesitate to invite themselves to 
another’s board when it suits them ; and Wetherby, not 
wishing to precipitate matters, dared not give him open 
offence. 

He had said nothing more with regard to his proposition 
for a family alliance — waiting, probably, until he should be 
able to produce the certificates of his wife’s death — but he 
took especial pains to make himself agreeable to Clarissa. 
It so happened, however — with him, as it often happens with 
other would-be swains — that when he thought he was ap- 
pearing to the best advantage in the eyes of the one he had set 
himself to work to please, exactly the contrary was the case. 

Clarissa had heretofore thought herself fortunate in being 
comparatively little noticed by this man, for whom she had 
had from the very first a great antipathy, and now when he ap- 


THE CARNIVAL, 


401 


peared so suddenly to evince an interest in her, and was evi- 
dently making an effort to please her, she was startled, and 
instead of meeting his advances with those signs of gratifica- 
tion he had expected to see, shrank within herself and drew 
away from him, as a timid bird might draw away from the 
reptile whose hissing tongue sounded dangerously close to 
her ear. 

The father noticed, without seeming to do so, the efforts 
! of his guest to make an impression on the girl, and inwardly 
rejoiced at his failure, though he could not account for the 
' undisguised repugnance with which those efforts were re- 
• ceived. Yorke was what would be called by many people a 
f handsome man, notwithstanding the evil look of his eyes ; 
i and having seen much of the world, and learned to imitate 
the manners of a gentleman, could talk in an entertaining 
way on a variety of subjects when he chose to do so, though 
now and then his native vulgarity would leak out in spite 
of himself. He could not be what is called fascinating, but 
: he could be agreeable ; and Wetherby was surprised, 
while at the same time he was pleased, to perceive that 
Clarissa seemed to find him otherwise, and he smiled to see 

I Yorke bite his lips with chagrin at his failure to elicit little 
more than monosyllables from the object of his attentions. 

Wetherby knew very little of women. He did not know 
that, though the weaker vessel in most things, she is stronger 
than man in one thing — in that never-failing intuition with 
which God has blessed her for her own protection, and 
■ which carries her safely amid many perils that her more 
: confident and less keen-scented lord rushes headlong upon to 
: his own destruction. 

I see. Miss Wetherby,’' said Yorke, when they had re- 
tired from the dinner-table to the sitting-room, “ that you 
have been making preparations for the Carnival.” 

It was close upon the Carnival season, and Clarissa had 
- left her costume, in which she had been making some altera- 
tions, lying upon the piano, and it had caught the visitor’s 
f eye as soon as he entered the room. She hastily gathered it 
I up and hid it away in a corner. 

“That will be very becoming to you,” he continued — 
“ blue and white. What character do you intend to person- 
f ate, if I may ask you to divulge such a secret ?” 

. “No particular character,” she replied quietly. 

“ You have displayed a very pretty tas^te, I assure you,” 
he said, “if I may judge from what little I had the good 
fortune to see. I have engaged one of the best loggias on 
the Corso,” he added, after waiting to see if she would say 


402 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


anything, “ and I will feel honored if you will avail yourself 
of it. Your father, I, and my sister can accompany you, 
and altogether we will make quite a pleasant party.'' 

“ I don’t know that my father intends to take any part in 
the amusements of the Carnival," replied Clarissa, " and I 
have already made my arrangements." 

He bit his lip with vexation ; but after a few minutes' 
silence returned to the attack. 

" I see you have a piano," he said, " so I suppose, like 
most young ladies, you are a musician." 

‘‘ 1 am taking lessons," was the response. 

" Will you favor me with a little music ?" he asked. 

" Certainly," and the girl thanked him in her heart for 
opening this avenue of escape to her. 

She sang Beethoven's " Adelaide," and he was aston- 
ished. He had heard a great deal of music, as every one 
who lives much in Europe does ; and had learned to discrim- 
inate between what was good, commonplace, and bad. 

" Ah !" he said, going to the piano and looking over the 
music lying upon it, " you have a magnificent voice, and 
would make your fortune on the stage." 

" 1 have no desire to make a fortune in that way." 

" The more’s the pity ; for the musical world will lose 
much. But I, at least, am not inclined to be a loser, so I 
will ask you to favor me with another song." 

She picked up a piece of music at random and placed it 
on the piano-rack in front of her. He stood beside her, 
prepared to turn over the leaves, but she looked round at 
him nervously, and told him she preferred to turn over her 
own music ; and biting his lip again, he retired. 

Mr. Wetherby all this time had sat at a window with a 
book in his hand. He had appeared to be very intent on 
his book, but had, in truth, read scarcely a line. His at- 
tention had been absorbed by his daughter and their guest, 
and he smiled complacently — a habit he had got into in the 
last few days — at the quiet rebuffs the latter got. Mrs. Gwyn 
had retired from the dinner-table to her own room, and did 
not make her appearance in the sitting-room at all. 

Clarissa, having gotten rid of her would-be assistant, sang 
song after song, happy in this excuse to keep him at a dis- 
tance, while he sat biting his lip and his mustache alter- 
nately, and thinking that " linked sweetness" might be 
sometimes a little too " long drawn out." 

So the time passed, until at last Clarissa left the piano 
with a sigh — for she had really tired herself — and Yorke 
concluded it was time to go. 


THE CARNIVAL. 


403 


The days of the Carnival are days of unremitted excite- 
I ment in Rome, as every one who has been there at that time 
knows. They are the days of jubilee to all classes except 
the unhappy Jews, who pay the piper that others may 
dance. 

It is to the Carnival that the hopeful lover looks forward, 
anticipating in imagination the joy of meeting his inamorata 
under cover of the masque, when he can distil love’s sweet 
honey into her willing ear, and drink in delight with her 
responsive sighs. It is for the Carnival the conspirator 
longs ; for then he can prosecute his intrigues and mature 
his plots, favored by the wild tumults that serve to hide his 
stealthy movements. It is for the Carnival the passionate 
Italian waits to cool his revenge in the warm blood of his 
rival. It is in the Carnival the vetturino rejoices, for his 
heart is made glad by a bountiful harvest of buona niano j and 
it is during the Carnival that thieves and beggars — synonyms 
in Italy — do a brisk business, picking pockets and gleaning 
the field where so much is wasted, possessing themselves of 
gifts intended for hands more soft and fair, though not so 
; needy. 

But the Carnival at Rome has been too often described 
with the pen and depicted by the pencil for any one to dwell 
upon the details of the picture at this late date. 

From the Piazza del Popolo to the Palazzo Veniziano the 
Via del Corso swarmed with human beings, some riding in 
carriages, but many more afoot, dressed in costumes rich 
of color and various of device — the quaint, the fantastic, the 
.grotesque, the comic, the tragic, jostling, scrambling, and 
t playing tricks with each other ; while the windows and 
loggie of the houses on each side, from foundation to roof, 

1 were decorated with brilliant tapestries and occupied by 
beauties from every clime. It was a scene “ of jest and 
jollity.” Everybody seemed in the merriest of humors — 

; laughing, shouting, and pelting each other with bonbons, 
confetti, and bouquets ; and if there was a gloomy brow or 
a sullen visage present, it was lost in the surrounding sea of 
mirth. 

Seated in one of the carriages that formed the long pro- 
cession, Sylvia and Clarissa enjoyed this, to them, novel 
spectacle of human madness as they slowly moved along 
with the crowd ; while Gathwright and Oliver from the front 
seat of the vehicle — each with a basket of flowers and con- 
fetti — distributed their favors with that discrimination men 
are wont to display when presenting offerings to their own 
sex or the opposite one. 


404 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


As they traversed the street back and forth, adding their 
share to the general excitement, Oliver observed a man in a 
white domino who seemed always to keep in their vicinity, 
and who threw into Clarissa’s lap several bouquets of mag- 
nificent flowers, to each of which was attached some elegant 
little bijou. The young lady’s attention was so entirely 
engrossed in the enjoyment of the universal hilarity around 
her, that she did not perceive the source whence came these 
floral gifts ; but when they attracted her attention they ap- 
peared to be so much more beautiful than the general run 
of flowers that were showered around, that she laid them aside 
in an empty basket at her feet. 

Oliver was not much pleased at this mark of distinction 
shown to these particular flowers. He said nothing, how- 
ever, and tried his best to overcome the incipient feeling of 
jealousy of which he felt ashamed ; but at last he became so 
irritated at the persistence of the white domino, that he 
seized upon a magnificent bouquet of camelias which had 
just been deposited in the usual receptacle, and dashed it 
full in the donor’s face. The insulted man turned away 
with a threatening gesture, and disappeared in the crowd. 

No one noticed the incident except Gathwright, and he 
extended his hand in an effort to stop his young friend, but 
too late. 

“ That was rash. Maxwell,” he said. ” These Italians are 
a vindictive race, and never forget an injury like that.” 

“I don’t know that he is an Italian,” replied Oliver ; 
” but it is no matter now whether he is or not.” 

A flourish of trumpets and the boom of a cannon about 
this time warned all vehicles to deposit their loads and leave 
the Corso ; and seated in a loggia, where Mrs. Rayburn and 
Mr. Wetherby — the latter of whom, much to the surprise and 
joy of his daughter, had resolved to take part in the amuse- 
ments of the day — already were, Oliver soon forgot the cir- 
cumstance. 

” Hi, Lello !” said a young Italian to a friend, who with 
his back against the wall of a house was gazing across the 
street with the look of a man in a dream, ” what are you 
staring at so hard ?” 

” Why, an angel, to be sure I” replied Lello, without tak- 
ing his eyes off the object of his admiration. ” Look in 
yonder balcony ; don’t you see her ?” 

” Ay, per Bacco, you’re right ; verily she is an angel. 
She will be English, I think — or American perhaps ; they 
are even prettier than the English.” 

” Hello, Beppo !” said another, who came up just then, 


THE CARNIVAL. 4^5 

“ what are you and Lello looking at so earnestly ? You look 
like men in a trance/' 

What ! are you blind ?” asked Beppo, pointing to the bal- 
cony across the narrow street, “ and you a painter, too ?" 

“ Santa Maria !" exclaimed the new-comer, his eyes fol- 
lowing the direction indicated, “ it is marvellous — that face : 
it would make one’s fortune to paint it.” 

” She wouldn’t sit to you if it would make two fortunes 
for you.” 

” Alas, no !” replied the painter. ” Unless a man of 
genius has rich connections he must seek his fortune in an- 
other direction.” 

” But she can’t keep me from studying her beauty, at any 
rate.” 

” You will have time to make a sketch of her before the 
horses come down,” said Beppo, laughing. 

” Ah, the horses !” said Lello. ” I say, what sport it 
must have been when the Jews were obliged to run the 
race !” 

” Ay, truly, that was something like sport. The accursed 
dogs, what a pity the poor horses have been substituted for 
them !” 

” That’s what they call civilization,” resumed Lello. 
” Those children of the devil are treated like Christians, and 
the poor dumb brutes have to suffer for it.” 

A regiment of infantry marched down the street, drop- 
ping the rear files as it went along until all were posted 
as sentinels on each side. This was to keep the eager and 
excited populace back out of the reach of danger from 
the horses. Another flourish of trumpets and a troop of 
cavalry came galloping over the pavement, with clattering 
hoofs and clashing sabres. Down to the Palazzo Veniziano 
— back again to the Piazza del Popolo — another blast of 
trumpets — clear the way ! — and a herd of riderless horses, 
covered with scraps of metal that clashed like cymbals, and 
leaden balls full of sharp spikes which acted as cruel spurs 
at every mad leap — mad^e wild by torture, rushed like a 
whirlwind past. The first day of the Carnival was ended. 

There is but one objection to the Carnival as a source of 
amusement : there is too much of it. Man abhors sameness 
as much as nature does a vacuum ; he must have variety in 
his pleasures, or they cease to be pleasures ; and even in his 
labors he seeks that quality. The calico-printer would quit 
his work in disgust if he were obliged to confine himself to 
one pattern ; and the joiner who should have to expend all 
his labor in the manufacture of one particular kind of chair 


4o6 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


would have but a cheerless life of it after all. If all trees 
and all flowers were alike, how soon they would pall upon 
us ! God has bestowed upon man an inventive faculty which 
ever leads him away from the old paths, even in the character 
of his amusements ; and He has created an endless variety 
of objects for man’s delight, while at the same time He has 
endowed him with a restless longing for something new. 

The night of the moccoletti is truly a relief to people who 
have been industriously pelting each other with flowers and 
sugar-plums for more than a week. This, the closing act of 
the fantasia, is a weird and beautiful scene, but soon past. 
Thousands of twinkling lights — not bigger than that made 
by a lucifer match — bob, twirl, whirl, wriggle, disap- 
pear and reappear, in a mile or more of street, until the 
sullen growl of the cannon — minister of war — proclaims to 
the people that he is tired of this peaceful fun, and then the 
Corso becomes suddenly as dark as the Via Appia. 

Through the hurrying throng Oliver Maxwell with 
Clarissa Wetherby clinging to his arm was pushing his way 
to get out of the crowded street, when a man enveloped in 
a cloak jostled against him. He started back with a cry of 
pain, but immediately pressing forward again, attempted to 
seize the stranger, who, eluding his grasp, glided away into 
the crowd, and was instantly lost to sight. 

“What is it?” asked Clarissa in a frightened voice, 
“ what is the matter ?” 

“ Nothing — nothing much,” replied the young man. 
“ Let us hurry on.” 

Just then Gathwright escorting Sylvia, and Mr. Weth- 
erby with Mrs. Rayburn, came up. 

“ What is the matter ?” asked the former ; “ why did you 
stop?” 

‘ ‘ I will explain afterwards, ’ ’ said Oliver ; “let us go on 
now. ’ ’ 

At the corner of the Via Condotti and the Piazza di 
Spagna he requested Mr. Wetherby to see the ladies home, 
and asked Gathwright to return with him to the Cafe Greco. 

This seemed such a strange proceeding that the English - 
man looked at him curiously for a moment, and then seeing 
that something serious was the matter, hurriedly acquiesced 
in the proposed arrangement, at the same time offering the 
other his arm. When they reached the cafe they went into 
one of the back rooms, and Gathwright now perceived that 
his companion was quite pale. 

“You are hurt,” he said ; “ what is it ?” 

Oliver threw aside his cloak, which he had thrown over 


RETROSPECTIVE, 40 / 

I his shoulder after his encounter with the man in the Corso, 

I and disclosed his coat sleeve saturated with blood. 

|| “Aha said Gathwright, “ what did I tell you?** 

* “Well, at any rate, he hasn’t done much harm,** said the 
other. “But I must sit; I feel quite weak.” He sat 
; down and his friend stripped off his coat as carefully as pos- 
; sible, and cutting open his shirt sleeve so as to bare the arm 
I entirely, examined the wound. 

! “It does not seem to be very serious ; but it bleeds quite 
i freely,** he said. “ Does it pain you ?” 

“Yes, a good deal.** 

“ We must have a surgeon. Stay here quietly, and I will 
I send a waiter for one.** 

The surgeon came and pronounced the wound of little 
I consequence. “It is nothing,** he said, “ but it was in- 
i tended for the heart. The assassin was unskilful, signor. 
He was not an Italian ; had he been, you would not be here 
now. ’ * 

“You have had a lucky escape. Maxwell,** said Gath- 
: wright ; “ look out for the future.” 

“ I didn’t think that fellow was an Italian when I threw 
his flowers back at him,** said Oliver, wincing under the 
hands of the surgeon,, who was binding up the arm. 

“You will find that others besides Italians will resort to 
the knife on occasion,** responded the other. 

The surgeon, having completed his task, took the 
patient’s address, promising to call and see him in the morn- 
ing, at the same time assuring him that he did not think his 
arm would give him much trouble ; and then the young 
man, leaning on his friend’s arm, went home and to bed 
without saying a word about the affair to Sylvia. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

Till day after Oliver received his hurt, Gathwright called 
at his studio to see if he suffered any inconvenience from it. 

“ How does the arm feel this morning ?” he asked as he 
entered. 

“ Quite sore,” replied the young artist ; “ and I fear it 
will interfere somewhat with my work.” 

“You may be thankful it is no worse. That fellow in- 
tended to kill you, and how he missed his aim with the cir- 


408 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


cumstances so much in his favor is unaccountable. Have 
you told your sister about it ?’ ' 

“ No, I have not done so yet ; but I suppose I will have 
to, as I feel that 1 will be obliged to wear my arm in a 
sling, for every time I forget myself, and let it drop to my 
side, the pain becomes almost insupportable.*' 

You had better let me arrange it for you now,*’ said his 
friend ; “ and after the surgeon has paid his visit, and given 
his opinion, if you choose, I will take upon myself the office 
of ambassador-extraordinary, to explain the whole affair to 
your sister ; I think I could manage to disclose the secret to 
her without frightening her.** 

“ That is just the favor I was going to ask of you,” re- 
plied Oliver, while Gathwright tied a silk scarf around his 
neck and adjusted his arm comfortably in its folds. 

” Very well,” said the Englishman, ” I will gladly under- 
take the office. How does the arm feel now ? — more com- 
fortable ?” 

“Yes, a great deal more comfortable. Thanks, good 
friend, for your assistance.” 

“ All right. But tell me how it is that Miss Sylvia didn’t 
notice that something was wrong ; you are very pale ?** 

“ She did ; but I told her I had a headache — which is the 
truth, though not all of it. I never before came so near 
telling a downright lie ; but I didn’t wish to alarm her.” 

“You were perfectly excusable. But let me give you a 
pjece of advice.” 

“ Certainly ; what is it ?” 

“ Be on your guard, and don’t give that fellow another 
opportunity to drive his knife into you ; it is no sign of 
timidity to avoid such encounters. If he had been an hon- 
est enemy he would have attacked you when you insulted 
him, or sent you a challenge.” 

“ Never fear for me on that score,” replied Oliver. “ I 
hope I am not a coward, but still more do I hope that I am 
not a fool ; for of the two I think 1 would rather be the for- 
mer than the latter, as I think nerve force can better be dis- 
pensed with than brain force.” 

Gathwright laughed. “ It’s a pity,” he said, “ that there 
are not more of your opinion ; but, unfortunately, the gen- 
eral run of mankind is so little blessed with brain, that that 
quality is only appreciated by the few. Cunning — craft— 
the great majority mistake for wisdom ; but bravery ranks 
with them even higher than cunning and craft. However, 
a man may be wise and cautious without lacking courage. 
Most men are brave, and if all were as wise as brave, you 


RE TROSPECri VE. 


409 

would never hear of such a thing as a panic in an army ; in 
fact, there would be little use for armies at all. The wise 
man understands the danger by which he is menaced, and if 
he is brave, faces it firmly, though it may be with fear and 
trembling : the other rushes at it like a mad brute, and as 
long as he carries every thing before him, charges on and on 
to the end. But let him meet with a sudden check, bringing 
him to a halt in his wild career ; the fever heat of rage or 
enthusiasm which has sustained him gives place to the chill 
of fear ; he is seized with terror, and turning, flies blindly, 
he knows not whither/’ 

“ Men appreciate what they can understand, I suppose, 
and honor it accordingly/* said Oliver languidly. “ But I 
wish that surgeon would come — I feel a little feverish ;’* and 
he stretched himself wearily on a couch which formed part 
of the furniture of his studio. 

“ My dear fellow,” said Gathwright, bending over him 
anxiously and feeling his pulse, ” I fear I have tired you ; 
but lie still and I will go in search of a physician. I’ll not 
be long gone.” 

When Gathwright returned, accompanied by an English 
physician, he found the Italian surgeon with Oliver. The 
two doctors agreed that the patient ought to go to his bed 
and be treated as an invalid, though they neither of them 
apprehended that he would be kept there long. 

Gathwright went to inform Sylvia of her brother’s illness. 
She was very much surprised at what she heard, for although 
she had noticed Oliver’s paleness, and he had told her he 
had a headache, she had concluded it was the effect of the 
past week’s fatigue and excitement. When the cause of his 
illness — which could not very well be longer concealed — was 
explained, she turned pale herself at the mere thought of the 
peril he had been in, and when he made his appearance a 
few minutes later, leaning heavily on the arm of the physi- 
cian, she took him to task for not confiding in her. How- 
ever, as she said herself, it was no time for scolding then ; 
and with the assistance of Elsie Brown — who was for taking 
summary vengeance on somebody, she did not seem to be 
particular as to who that somebody might be, ^ la Judge 
Lynch — she set to work to make him as comfortable as he 
could be under the circumstances. 

As soon as Mrs. Gwyn heard that Oliver was sick, she 
hastened to offer her services as nurse, and her offer was 
gladly accepted by Sylvia ; for Elsie Brown was altogether 
useless in a sick-room — her strident voice rebelling against 


410 AFTER MANY YEARS. 

all effort at modulation, and her rough manners more inca- 
pable of polish than granite itself. 

Though Mrs. Gwyn had no appreciation of the ruins of 
ancient cities or the beauties of modern ones — though she 
found no pleasure in looking at pictures, no delight in con- 
templating what she called indecent statues — her heart was 
full of the milk of human kindness ; and even had she felt 
no special interest in the invalid, she would have been glad 
to minister to him in his helplessness. 

But she did feel a special interest in him. As has proba- 
bly been already surmised, she was the Mistress Margaret 
with whom the infancy of Oliver and Sylvia had been associ- 
ated, and about whom they had told David Maxwell and his 
wife. And here it will be as well to explain how they hap- 
pened to be under her care in the first place, and why she 
had deserted them. 

Her brother, Con Ragan, had been a wicked, lying scamp 
from his boyhood. Their mother, a widow, had died when 
Margaret was seventeen, and Con was ten years her junior. 
The care of him naturally fell to her ; and she had stinted 
herself in order to give him a common-school education, and 
had endeavored besides to instil honest principles into his 
mind. But he had proved utterly incorrigible ; would lie 
and steal, as if by instinct ; and when he was fifteen years 
old, had run away from her. She heard no more of him for 
some years, and began to hope that he was dead — for, as 
she said to herself, he would never come to any good if he 
lived — when suddenly he made his appearance, dressed like 
— no, not like a gentleman, as I was going to say, but like a 
successful blackleg. 

He was accompanied by a woman — a nurse, she seemed — 
who carried two little infants in her arms. He had told her 
the children were his own ; but she had not believed him. 
Had he said they were not his, she might have believed they 
were ; but she knew he was a liar, and she had lived long 
enough to learn that a liar never speaks the truth if he can 
lay hold of a lie to use in its stead : the very truth itself, in 
his mouth, is so distorted and twisted out of its fair propor- 
tions, as to become unrecognizable in its deformity, and an- 
swer the purpose of a lie. What was more, her experience 
with him had taught her that a liar is generally a thief, and 
she believed that these children had been stolen by him — 
for what purpose, of course, she could not guess. 

He had desired her to take charge of the little ones : but 
at first she had refused to do so, not wishing to be in any 
way connected with his nefarious acts ; but when he had 


RETROSPECTIVE, 


411 

told that in case she refused he would be obliged to place 
them with an acquaintance of his— at the same time hinting 
that this acquaintance was not a person of the very best 
character — her heart was moved with pity, and she accepted 
the position thus forced upon her, determining as she did 
so to make an effort to find out to whom they rightfully be- 
longed, so that she might restore them to the bosom of the 
unhappy mother from whom they had been ruthlessly torn, 
and who, she doubted not, was at that moment mourning 
her loss. 

The woman who had charge of them at the time was 
nurse them until such time as her services should 
be deemed no longer necessary. She seemed to be a sim~ 
pie, good-hearted creature ; and when Ragan was gone, an- 
swered all questions put to her as far as she was able to do 
so, telling without hesitancy what she knew with regard to 
the waifs, which was very little. 

The gentleman, she said, had engaged her to take charge 
of the babes about six months previous. He had carried 
her to a place a long way off — travelling sometimes by rail- 
way, sometimes in stage-coaches, and sometimes in wagons. 
She did not know the name of the place. An old woman 
who had the little ones turned them over to her, and told 
her that their parents were dead. No, she didn’t learn the 
name of the old woman, who had taken occasion, when the 
gentleman wasn't nigh, to give her something wrapped up in 
paper and tied with an old piece of fishing-line. This was 
to be concealed from and kept for the babes, of whom 
the old woman seemed really to be very fond, and he had 
given her quite a sum of money for taking care of them. 
Yes, she had the little packet in her bosom, where she had 
always carried it. She was honest ; and though she had 
opened it, of course, to satisfy the cravings of curiosity, she 
had kept it faithfully, and thrusting her red, rough hand 
into her bosom, she took it out and handed it to Mrs. Gwyn. 
The removal of the wrappings of soiled paper disclosed the 
locket which Sylvia had worn when she and her brother were 
left at farmer Maxwell’s, and as soon as Mrs. Gwyn looked 
at the pictures it contained, she knew that her surmises were 
correct — the children had been stolen, and they were not the 
offspring of common folk. 

Mrs. Gwyn was a childless widow at that time, having 
married and lost her husband during her brother’s absence, 
and the maternal love that had slumbered in her bosom was 
poured out now on these two motherless little ones. 

They remained with her several years — her brother Con 


412 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


coming now and then to see after them. She never said 
any thing to him about her suspicions with regard to them ; 
but did what she could to discover some trace of those who 
might have some claim upon them. Her principal hope of 
success lay in the locket, which she advertised freely, know- 
ing that her brother — even should he happen to see her ad- 
vertisement — would suspect nothing in connection with it. 

All her efforts, however, had proved of no avail ; though 
many persons came to look at the jewel, none recognized it, 
and she at last gave up the task as hopeless. 

She had become warmly attached to the children, and 
would have been well satisfied to have them grow up under 
her care, though she would have had to work hard and stint 
herself in many ways to educate them and bring them up as 
she would have desired. But this was not to be. One day 
she received a letter from Con, in which he told her he would 
come shortly to relieve her of her charge. 

By way of explanation, he said he wished to have them 
near him, so that he might see that they were properly edu- 
cated ; but of this she believed not a word, and determined 
that he should not have them unless he told her the truth, 
and the whole truth, with regard to them. 

She must part with them, at least for a time, perhaps for- 
ever ; and though it almost broke her heart, she resolutely 
determined to do so at once. She tried to think of some 
friend with whom she could leave them, who would love 
them and care for them as she had done ; but her friends 
were few in number, and none of them well-to-do in the 
world. At last she thought of David Maxwell and his wife. 
She had heard of the good old couple, who, though well off, 
had never had a child to bless them, although they, she felt 
certain, had never heard of her. 

The place where they lived, surrounded by plenty, was 
twenty-five or thirty miles distant, secluded and out of the 
usual route of travellers. She concluded to leave them with 
the farmer and his wife ; and if she could prevail upon her 
brother to give her the information she desired, to call for 
them again, making some excuse for leaving them so long. 

Her resolve was carried into effect at once, and Ragan, 
when he found himself cheated, was in a great rage ; but he 
could not move her, nor she him, for he knew if he complied 
with her wishes, his own designs would be frustrated, and 
she would not trust him, though he protested with many 
oaths, that he intended nothing but what would be for their 
good. 

So the matter rested ; the sister inexorable, the brother 


RE TROSPECTIVE, 


413 


obstinate, and years passed. As long as Mrs. Gwyn re- 
mained where she then was, she managed, from time to 
time, to gather news of the children ; and the hrst anguish 
of parting over, was well content with what she had done ; 
but misfortune came — she lost her humble home, and was 
obliged to seek employment of some sort. Ragan, who did 
not wish to lose sight of her, hoping in the end, by threats 
or persuasion, to induce her to reveal her secret, recom- 
mended her to Wetherby as a sort of governess to his 
daughter. 

Clarissa was at this time living with her father ; but was 
soon after placed at a boarding-school in a country town, 
whither Mrs. Gwyn accompanied her, remaining close at 
hand to look after all her wants extraneous to her education. 
Some years later Mr. Wetherby went to Europe, leaving his 
daughter still at the school. It was at this time he changed 
his name, explaining this act by saying that a relation had 
left him some money on condition of his doing so, and 
I neither Mrs. Gwyn nor his daughter thought of questioning 
I the truth of his assertion. The former had often heard of 
such cases, and explained it satisfactorily to the latter, who 
assumed her father’s new name without questioning, and 
soon had almost forgotten that she had borne any other. 

When rescued from the burning ship, Clarissa — having 
completed her education, at least so far as boarding-schools 
I were concerned — was on her way to Europe to join her 
! father. He had specially requested her to take passage on a 
sailing vessel, alleging that it would be beneficial to her 
health ; and thus, by one of those so-called strange freaks of 
^ fortune, Mrs. Gwyn had been brought in contact once more 
I with those two, who had always been cherished lovingly in 
her memory. 

She did not recognize Sylvia at first, of course ; but when 
Elsie Brown came to their assistance, at the same time call- 
ing the young lady by name — that name which Mrs. Gwyn 
had herself bestowed upon her — she knew at once both mis- 
tress and maid, and the shock of sudden recognition almost 
overcame her. Her first impulse had been to clasp the girl 
in her arms and weep over her, as a mother would weep 
over a long-lost child restored to her. But she controlled 
herself, and after thinking over the situation concluded to 
say nothing so long as Elsie Brown did not recognize her ; 
for what excuse could she give for having deserted the 
children ? and what explanation could she make with regard 
to her original connection with them ? Her brother, refusing 
to divulge the truth, and denying all knowledge of them, 


414 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


would leave her in the position of a criminal, and so she 
saw that her best policy was silence, at least for the present. 

It may seem strange that Elsie Brown did not know her 
— especially as we know that Elsie’s chief object in life for 
some time past had been the discovery of this very woman 
— but we must take into consideration the facts that Elsie’s 
mind was not of a very penetrating character, and that Mrs. 
Gwyn was a very different-looking person to what she had 
been that Christmas morn when Elsie first saw her. Then, 
she was many years younger — a plain-looking woman, 
plainly dressed in country fashion ; now, she was old, with 
hair almost white, dressing and looking like a respectable old 
lady. Elsie was one of those people who never change, but 
look the same from youth to old age — save alone for a few 
wrinkles, more or less : having seen her at twenty you would 
not fail to know her at a hundred. 

I will close this chapter by stating that Margaret Ragan — 
now Mrs. Gwyn — and her brother Con were children of 
Irish parents. In fact, they were Irish by birth themselves ; 
but having been carried to America when very young, they 
could scarcely be identified as Irish by their speech. Mar- 
garet had all the generous traits common to her race, while 
Con was the personification of a mean Irishman, and a 
mean Irishman — a rara avis^ by the way — is about the 
meanest of men. When he dropped the name of Ragan 
and assumed that of Yorke, it was chiefly because he was 
ashamed of his nationality, and when his sister took him to 
task about it — which she did once, and only once — he asked 
her if she supposed he was going through life with the 
brand of Paddy on his back, and then went on to speak 
about Ireland and everything belonging to it— including his 
own father — in such a way as to horrify and silence her. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

DIVERS MATTERS PERTAINING TO OUR STORY. 

Oliver Maxwell got worse, and his friends became 
alarmed. It was unaccountable that so slight a wound — for 
it was merely a slash in the fleshy part of the arm should 
produce such serious consequences ; unless, as one or two 
hinted in mysterious whispers, the blade that made it had 
been poisoned. But both the surgeon and physician de- 
clared there were no symptoms of poison : cold must have 


MATTERS PERTAINING TO OUR STORY. 415 

been contracted somehow. And then they learned from 
the patient himself that he had waked up the night he 
received the wound with a feeling of numbness in the limb, 
and on examination had found that the bandage had slipped 
from its place. He had readjusted it as best he could ; but 
in the morning had suffered from severe headache, accom- 
panied by great languor. 

The physician did not consider his patient to be by any 
means dangerously ill ; but his case required to be closely 
watched and well nursed. 

Mrs. Gwyn was the gentlest of nurses, and day and night 
insisted upon remaining in the sick-room, snatching a little 
sleep, now and then, when Sylvia or Gathwright was pres- 
ent. Sylvia tried to persuade her to take her proper rest ; 
but the old lady said she got quite rest enough, and none of 
them understood nursing as she did ; besides, it was not 
good for young people to stay much in a sick room, and 
though the girl persisted in staying by her brother the 
greater part of the day, she was generally prevailed upon to 
take a walk in the afternoon, in which she was always ac- 
companied by Gathwright and Clarissa. Mrs. Gwyn would 
not even give place to Mrs. Rayburn, who desired to do her 
part, and who pronounced the former the most obstinate old 
woman she had ever met with in the course of her life — 
“ obstinate in well-doing, however,’’ she added. 

The fact was, these hours by Oliver’s bedside were 
happy hours to Mrs. Gwyn — too precious for her to lose 
one of them. They carried her back to the days of his in- 
fancy, when he had slept upon her bosom ; and her heart 
overflowed with tenderness for him while she hung over him, 
and bathed with gentle hand his burning, aching head. 
Oh ! how she longed to cast herself down beside him and tell 
him of those days so long ago, and ask him if he did not re- 
member her. Ah ! she dared not — though the suppressed 
emotion should kill her, she dared not betray it — to be mis- 
taken, possibly, for a lunatic. 

It will be difficult for some to appreciate the silent hero- 
ism of this simple woman in restraining her feelings as long 
as she had, contenting herself with loving in secret the 
nurslings who, to all appearance, had forgotten her. 

She had watched them when they least suspected it, lis- 
tening to all they said, in hopes they would let fall a word 
that might give her reason to believe they still retained some 
faint recollection of the little cottage in which their baby 
years were spent. 

They spoke often of their childhood and youth ; but not 


4i6 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


by a word did they give evidence that their memories went 
farther back than the years spent on the farm near Atwell. 

She had taken notice of every piece of jewelry Sylvia had 
ever worn ; but not once had she seen the locket with the 
miniatures, and she had heard Sylvia tell Clarissa that she 
had no idea what her parents had looked like, as she had 
never seen them, and had no pictures of them. “ What 
had become of it?’’ she wondered. ‘‘Possibly it had 
fallen from the child’s neck during the journey to David 
Maxwell’s.” 

There was Elsie Brown, it was true : she could vouch for 
the truth of part of her story, should she choose to disclose 
it ; but beyond that she had left the children at farmer Max- 
well’s door, she could prove nothing. Elsie was a rough, 
unreasoning creature, and she had never dared to reveal 
herself to her ; indeed, she had been in dread for a while 
lest she should be recognized by her, in which case, instead 
of being mistaken for a lunatic, she would be considered a 
criminal. Her brother, of course, would deny his share in 
the affair ; and had he not told her that he had no further 
interest in it, and that she should never know from him any 
more than she already knew ? Should she divulge her por- 
tion of the secret, what then ? Instead of the grateful affec- 
tion which she felt she had a just right to, shame, contumely, 
and undeserved disgrace. It had better be left untold. 
Even had she had the courage to make the disclosure, what 
good could come of it ? Perhaps Oliver and his sister 
already knew all that she could tell — though she did not 
think they did — and had been taught to consider her in the 
light of an enemy. In any case matters had better rest as 
they were. They were prosperous, happy, and beloved : why 
then introduce a disturbing element into their peaceful lives ? 
By the same train of reasoning, common-sense had brought 
her to the same conclusion that it had David Maxwell. 

In spite of all her care and the best medical attendance 
that could be procured, the young man grew worse and 
worse, and at last became delirious. Then he talked of 
things that even his sister failed to comprehend. But there 
was one there who heard and understood every word ; and 
how her withered heart throbbed while she listened ! Ah ! 
how patiently she watched over him ! how gentle, how ten- 
der she was ! Sylvia, half distracted, looked on and mar- 
velled — marvelled to see the effect this woman’s soothing 
words produced. 

She talked to him as if he were a baby, and he seemed to 
know the voice, and heed its admonitions, when all other 


MATTERS PERTAINING TO OUR STORY, 417 


voices were unheeded, unrecognized. What would the girl 
have thought had she seen this stranger weep over her 
patient in the drear watches of the night, and kneeling by 
his bedside, pray earnestly, passionately, to God for his 
young life ? 

Elsie Brown, though she had not been permitted to nurse, 
was by no means offended, and never failed to visit the sick 
chamber several times a day, where she would stand some- 
times for half an hour without speaking a word, looking at 
Oliver as he tossed restlessly in his bed, with a sorrowful, 
anxious face. One day, when her young mistress had gone 
out for a little exercise, she opened the door softly and en- 
tered the room. 

There was a screen in front of the door, and as she stood 
behind it for a moment she heard the murmur of Mrs. 
Gwyn’s voice. She knew at once that she was praying, and 
not wishing to disturb her, remained where she was and lis- 
tened ; and as she listened a sudden revelation came to her. 
She had never been present when the nurse had carried on 
those incomprehensible conversations with her delirious pa- 
tient — the former had been careful that she should not hear 
them — but the prayer that she heard now offered up to God 
and His saints would have enlightened a duller mind than 
hers. She waited until the suppliant had risen from her 
knees, and then coming forth from her hiding-place, walked 
straight up to her and seized her by the wrist. 

“ Look 'e here,'* she said, almost fiercely, “ I knows ye 
now, an* I knows why yer won't take no rest, day nur night, 
fur him. It were you what run away an' left 'em : what 
did you do it fur ? Tell me !" 

Mrs. Gwyn was so taken by surprise that she could not 
speak, and for an instant she quailed before the threatening 
glance of those cold blue eyes. “ Wait," she said, when 
she had recovered herself sufficiently to speak, " wait, and I 
will tell you all. I expected this to happen some time ago.'' 

" You did, eh ! Well, now that I looks at yer close, it 
seems a wonder to me that it didn’t ; but I've been a gittin' 
sorter nigh-sighted sence I growed ole, an' I never looked at 
yer pertic'lar afore." 

" Let us sit down," said Mrs. Gwyn, freeing her wrist 
from the other's grasp, which had not relaxed in the least, 
and began to be painful, " let us sit down, and I will ex- 
plain to you." 

" Jest as yer please," replied Elsie, taking a seat, * but 
settin' or standin' I'm bound to have it out'n yer, one way 
or another." 


4i8 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ I will tell you all I know/' said the other ; but I’m 
afraid you will be disappointed when you have heard me.” 

“Disappointed! how disappointed? Don’t yer try to 
fool me, woman ! 1 ain’t been a lookin’ fur ye all these 
years to be fooled by yer now, let me tell yer that ; an’ ef 
yer don’t tell the truth. I’ll find them as will make yer.” 

“You need not make any threats,” replied Mrs. Gwyn ; 
“it is unnecessary. I am willing to tell all 1 know, and 
only wish I could tell more. God knows I love them with my 
whole heart, and you ought to know it too ; for you know 
how I have nursed and tended my poor boy, though you 
don’t know how I have prayed for him and the tears ran 
down her cheeks as she spoke. 

“ Well, well,” said Elsie, somewhat mollified, “ that’s so, 
and I b’lieve yer. Tell me what yer know, an’ mayhap we 
can fix things right atwen us.” 

Oliver had been quiet thus far while they were talking ; 
but now he began to move restlessly and mutter to himself, 
and Mrs. Gwyn went to him, while Elsie looked on and 
wondered to see how easily she soothed him and put him to 
rest again. 

“ Now,” said the nurse when her patient was quiet once 
more, “ I will tell you all that I have to tell ; but you must 
listen patiently and not interrupt me.” 

“ Go on,” responded Elsie. 

Mrs. Gwyn then gave her auditor an account of the ma^n- 
ner in which the “ babes,” as she called them, came to her, 
only omitting the relationship of the man who brought them 
to her ; dwelling on the details of their infantile life with 
evident pleasure, and grieving over the necessity which com- 
pelled her to part with them. 

Elsie listened attentively, and when she had concluded, 
said, “ Ah ! I onderstand. But them picturs wasn’t lost : 
they was hid.” 

“ Hid !” said Mrs. Gwyn ; “ what for ?” 

“ ’Cause Mister Maxwell thunk it was best they shouldn’t 
know nuthin’, sence they couldn’t know all.” 

“ Mr. Maxwell was a wise man. But you ; have you 
never said any thing ?” 

“ Me ! no ! I ain’t a fool, ef I ain’t a Sulimon — as I tole 
Miss Maxwell of’en enough — what would ’a been the use ?” 

“ You are right : it would have done no good — perhaps 
harm — and it would do no good now, remember that.” 

“ In course it wouldn’t.” 

“ Very well ; for the present let this rest between us ; 


MATTERS PERTAINING TO OUR STORY, 419 

perhaps I may find out something. But you haven’t told 
me what became of the pictures.” 

” Oh ! they be safe enough.” 

“You know where they are, then ?” 

” Yes, to be sure — the master’s got ’em.” 

” The master ! who is he ?” 

” The school -master, Mr. Dinnin’, at Atwell.” 

Mrs. Gwyn wrote the name on a slip of paper and put it 
in her bosom. ‘‘ And now,” she said, ” promise me to say 
nothing, and I will promise you to do all I can to find out 
more ; will you do this ?” 

” Why not ? I ain’t got nuthin’ to tell, arter all.” 

And so they parted. 

And Clarissa Wetherby — how was she faring in this time 
of anxiety and dread ? Her heart had gone out to the hand- 
some young painter. If she did not know it before, she 
wp fully aware of it now ; and she was almost ill herself 
with this new trouble hanging like an awful shadow over her 
gentle, timid soul. She hung around and clung to Sylvia 
whenever the latter was absent from the sick-bed of her 
brother ; and though no word betrayed her secret anguish, 
the stronger maiden knew her weaker sister’s sorrow, and 
did all she could to support and comfort her, while sadly 
needing such support and comfort herself. When she lacked 
the consolation of Sylvia’s presence, she kept to her chamber, 
where she wept and prayed for him. 

God heard the prayers daily poured out to Him ; and 
after hovering on the boundaries of eternity, Oliver Max- 
well rallied. There was yet work for him on earth, and 
” joy reigned where grief so late had been.” 

When his delirium passed off, Oliver no longer recognized 
Mrs. Gwyn as other than a kind and gentle nurse — every 
vestige of his late remembrance had passed from his mind. 
She had not expected otherwise ; and yet the heart which 
had expanded and felt almost young again in that trying 
time shrunk within itself once more ; the void that had been 
filled for a few short days was again a void — and, oh, how it 
ached ! This poor, simple soul was a heroine — a heroine 
unknown to the world. She was thankful when all danger 
was passed — rthankful when, recovering his consciousness, 
he no longer remembered her — thankful when all others 
were filled with joy, though she had still to bear her cross. 

But she had her consolation. Oliver and Sylvia did not 
forget her untiring devotion, to which was mainly due his 
recovery. They loved her, and manifested their love and 
gratitude in every possible way. They loved her, though 


420 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


not with that love they had known for her in their infancy 
— that love so dear to woman’s heart — the love of the child 
for its mother or protector. 

About a* week after the Carnival, Yorke informed Mr. 
Wetherby that he was going to Paris. 

“ I will come back to Rome,” he said, ” in April or May, 
and bring with me the proofs of my former wife’s death, and 
then I will become a suitor for Miss Wetherby’s hand. I 
will expect you to use your influence in my favor — do you 
understand ?” 

” I cannot control my daughter’s inclinations in that re- 
spect,” replied Wetherby, with more firmness than he had 
ever before displayed in the presence of this man, who 
looked at him now with surprise. He had thought his victim 
thoroughly cowed, and this looked like rebellion against his 
power. Several minutes elapsed before he sufficiently re- 
covered from his astonishment to speak again, and then he 
only said — though there was an emphasis of scorn in his 
tone — ” You can’t !” 

” No,” was the response. ” The days when fathers 
could force their daughters to wed against their inclinations 
are past, and even though they had not, I would certainly 
not attempt to do so in the case of Miss Wetherby.” 

” Very well,” said the other significantly, ‘‘ if you can’t 
help me, perhaps I can help myself.” Wetherby knew what 
he meant, but said not a word, and he continued, with hardly 
suppressed rage : ” However, it will be time enough to talk 
about this when I return and produce the proofs I told you 
of. Of course, until I have done that, 1 can’t expect you 
to look with favor on my proposition. In the mean time, I 
advise you to do nothing to compromise my chances.” As 
his auditor still remained silent, playing nervously with a 
pen that he had in his hand, he went on : “I am fully 
aware that Miss Wetherby has what is called a beau — I 
haven’t been in Rome three weeks without finding that out ; 
but he is like to die, I hear ; if he does, so much the bet- 
ter. His death will remove an obstacle, and free us from 
some unpleasant complications. You have nothing to say !” 
his rage getting the better of him now. “You are anxious 
to be rid of me — why don’t you say so at once ? You have 
letters to write to some of your numerous friends — you have 
so many of them,” with a malicious sneer. 

Wetherby winced before this thrust, because it was truly 
aimed. ” I have forfeited all claim to the friendship of 
honest men,” he said, with a sigh, ” and those who are 
otherwise don’t know the meaning of the word.” 


MATTERS PERTAINING TO OUR STORY. 


421 


“ Oh ! they dont,” responded Yorke, with his diabolical 
laugh ; “ well, you certainly ought to know. But I will go 
now. You understand the situation, and you know me. 
Au revoiry 

When he was gone, the man he had been bullying laughed 
a dry, hard, mirthless laugh, and taking a minute vial from 
some hidden pocket, regarded it complacently. Whatever 
his thoughts were, they seemed to give him a certain kind of 
pleasure, for he toyed with his vial a long time, smiling to 
himself now and then as if he were communing pleasantly 
with it. 

Yorke had seen little of his sister during his stay in 
Rome. Though there was a certain bond between them, as 
we are aware, it was not one of sympathy or affection ; jnd 
having long since become convinced that the only secret she 
possessed which he desired to know (and it had only been a 
little while since he had told her he had no longer cared to 
know it) would never be disclosed to him, he had ceased to 
have any communication with her further than a few casual 
remarks when he met her in Mr. Wetherby’s house. Of 
course, under these circumstances, he did not trouble him- 
self to bid her good-by previous to his departure ; and it 
was nearly a week before she knew that he had gone to 
Paris. 

The season of Lent was nearly over when Oliver so far 
recovered his strength as to be able to go out each day and 
enjoy the fresh air and glorious sunshine — thrice glorious to 
him now — on the Pincian Hill. Thither he was always ac- 
companied by his sister and Clarissa — and often Gathwright. 
Oh ! but these were pleasant days to the invalid — these idle 
days of convalescence — when, feeling his strength, so nearly 
exhausted, gradually returning, he took a new delight in life 
and the things that belonged to it. Life and love were like 
celestial gifts renewed to him ; and he had never been so 
happy as now, when, without need of excuse, he could sit, 
idly enjoying the beauties of nature, with those he prized 
most dearly near him, full of tender sympathy and love. 

The physicians had not ascribed his severe illness entirely 
to the wound he had received ; that, they said, had simply 
hastened the development and perhaps increased the viru- 
lence of the fever, which would have attacked him later in 
the season. The germ of the disease was in his system, and 
had been forced, as it were, by circumstances. 

As soon as he was strong enough to bear the fatigue of 
the short journey, they recommended a sojourn of a few 
weeks at Albano. Gathwright proposed that Mrs. Rayburn, 


'422 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Miss Wetherby, and himself should go too, considerately sug- 
gesting that the sole charge of the convalescent ought not to 
fall upon his sister, who was already nearly broken down ; 
and his proposal was gladly accepted. 

Albano is a delightful retreat — especially so in the spring- 
time, when Nature with her sweetest smiles invites us to en- 
joy ourselves. The salubrious mountain air in a little while 
brought the healthy color back to Oliver’s cheeks, and he 
insisted upon resigning the position of exclusive considera- 
tion usually accorded to an invalid, desiring to be placed on 
an equal footing with the rest of the party. 

The Villa Torlonia, at the western extremity of the village, 
is a quaint little place, where art has been employed to imi- 
tate the accidental effects of nature. In one of its em- 
bowered nooks sat Oliver and Clarissa. One of her hands 
was clasped in his, and a warm glow bloomed on her 
cheeks, while, with downcast eyes, she listened to the tender 
murmur of his voice. The Campagna, with all its varied 
tints and mists, its streaks of sunshine and shadow, 
stretched away before them. Around them trees, shrubs, 
and flowers mingled their colors in rich but harmonious pro- 
fusion ; while through the leaves— which seemed to whisper 
to each other, and then shake with laughter at something 
droll that passed between them, until every spray trembled 
with mirthful emotion— could be seen fountains, which sent 
their silvery jets up to sport with the passing breeze. 
Miniature cascades, pouring over miniature precipices, 
leaped from rock to rock, and fell splashing among the mar- 
ble forms of naiads, while in the checkered shades” Pan 
played upon his reeds to dancing fauns and wood nymphs. 

Birds were singing love-songs in the trees over their heads, 
and crickets and grasshoppers were softly chirping to the 
same tune in the turf at their feet, whence a little lizard 
slyly crept, turning its head to one side, and peering at them 
with a quaint look of impudent inquiry in its cunning eyes. 

What the leaves were whispering to each other about that 
made them so merry, or what the impudent lizard saw and 
heard, it is unnecessary to relate. The same old, old story 
that has been told in every language under the sun since the 
day that Adam and Eve, in ” their blissful bow’r,” first 
gazed into each other’s eyes and saw the warm glow of hid- 
den fires there. 

In another part of the Villa, Gathwright and Sylvia were 
standing on the margin of a miniature lake, over the glassy 
surface of which a stately swan was slowly moving, scarcely 


! MATTERS PERTAINING TO OUR STORY, 423 

Stirring the water as he glided in and out among the water- 
! lilies and rushes. 

“ Poor fellow/* said Harold musingly. 

“ Why do you say poor fellow ?’* asked his companion. 

' “ Because he is doomed to spend his life in solitude/’ 

j was the reply. 

! “ Avery luxurious solitude/* said Sylvia, laughing softly, 

i “ and he seems very well content with it.*’ 

‘‘ So he does. Perhaps he is like some people, who are 
so well satisfied with themselves that they ask nothing more 
than to be allowed to admire themselves during the natural 
period of their existence.** 

“ Truly he has the look of it,** responded Sylvia. “ But 
do you know that that was a very ill-natured comparison you 
made ? WTy may we not excuse such little weaknesses in 
our fellows ? — they harm no one ?’* 

“ I stand corrected, sweet Sylvia,** replied Harold, using 
! her name in that way, half jokingly, half in earnest, “ and I 
thank you. As you say, weaknesses of that sort do no one 
, any harm, and I’m inclined to think those who have them 
i are entitled to be treated as harmless lunatics.” 

” You don’t seem to improve under my tuition, at any 
! rate,” said the girl, the blush which his ” sweet Sylvia” had 
called up still fluttering on her cheeks : ” you grow worse 
! and worse ; and if your aunt were here, she would certainly 
; take you to task.” 

: ‘‘Perhaps she would, and perhaps I shouldn’t mind her 

as much as I do you ; but 1 will try to do better.” 

Harold Gathwright stood for a few minutes silently gazing 
, into the clear water of the little lake as if he were searching 
’ in its depths for something. Perhaps he was searching for 

I some honeyed word — some ” sesame” whose wondrous charm 
would open the portal of a maiden’s heart. 

And the maiden — standing beside him as silent as him- 
self ; why stood she so still ? Did her woman s intuition 
tell her that one decisive moment of her life was approach- 
ing on the noiseless wing of time ? With her hands folded 
in front of her, holding a snow-white lily, through the heart 
of which — its trembling stamens — her own heart seemed to 
vibrate, she might have been the goddess of purity. 

Like all those who, under like circumstances, seek for a 
sentence or a word specially fitted for the occasion, Harold 
failed to find it ; and turning with sudden impulse to his fair 
companion, he seized both her trembling hands in his, and 

II the fitting word came with the action — the simplest and the 
^ best. 


424 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


“ Sylvia — sweet Sylvia !” he said ; and his manly voice 
shook a little as he said it, “I love you.” 

Sylvia said not a word ; but her hands remained clasped 
in his, and the snowy lily, with its golden chalice — emblem 
of their pure and lofty love, rich in golden hopes of the 
future — was between them. He drew her gently to him, 
and fof one moment holding her in his strong embrace, 
kissed her. 

** Per tutto amor si aggira, 

Per tutto amor sospira, 

Tutto il creato e un palpito 
Immenso dell’ amor.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE RETURN TO ROME, AND A LETTER FROM ALFORD. 

The few remaining days that the lovers spent at Albano 
were halcyon days in the calendar of their lives. Though 
there were no mutual confidences, every one of the party — 
Mrs. Rayburn included — seemed to know what had hap- 
pened. Young love had ” blossomed as the rose and 
each day added a new flower — rich in perfume and beauty — 
to the cluster. Shall I dwell upon those days, and attempt 
with words to describe that which -words are inadequate to 
interpret ? Words ! words ! what an insufficient medium 
they are, after all, with which to convey an idea of the feel- 
ings that move the heart of man ! 

Life is sweet when love and youth go hand and hand to- 
gether ; how passing sweet when the path is strewn with 
flowers, and we are surrounded by all that is beautiful in 
nature and art, while the cares and sorrows which accom- 
pany age and poverty seem yet afar off. The course of 
true love may ne'er run smooth — death from monotony 
would be its fate in most cases if it did — but it runs merrily 
to pleasant melody, for all that ; and who of us does not 
look back with sweet remembrance to its little storms and 
whirlpools, from which we came out into smooth water and 
bright sunshine again with ever-renewed rapture. 

But no clouds had arisen on the summer sky of love in 
this case, and let us not anticipate them — they never may 
arise. The vettura that carried the sojourners back to the 
city carried a full cargo of happiness also. 

Oliver had received a second letter from Alford, written 
at Paris, in which was given a detailed account of all that 


THE RETURN TO ROME. 


425 


had happened in the search after Elenor Weston, and clos- 
ing with an amusing description of the encounter with Tulip 
in Vienna ; and when he returned to Rome from Albano, he 
found, among several letters awaiting him, another from the 
same writer. 

I will transcribe it here, as it will probably be a satisfac- 
tion to my readers to know how the story, begun so long 
ago, and interrupted so often, ended. 

‘‘ My dear Oliver : When I wrote to you last, I was on 
the point of starting for the United States with my dear 
Elenor and Madame Trudeau under my protection. 

“We had a prosperous voyage, and when we arrived in 
New York took the first train going south. Elenor went 
to some relations living in Virginia, and stayed with them 
until about two weeks ago, when she became my wife, and 
returned with me to Baltimore. 

“ Ah, my dear friend ! how can I picture to you my hap- 
piness ? How long — how long have I dreamed of these 
blissful days, when my love should be always with me ! 
And now that they have come, how immeasurably does the 
reality of happiness surpass my most brilliant visions. 

“ How can people — all other circumstances favoring — de- 
lay the fruition of their dearest hopes from year to year, 
waiting on those riches which may never come I When 
Elenor and I look back to that parting in Rome —which now 
seems so long ago — we feel as though we had been cheated 
out of years of joy to which we were entitled. Life is too 
short, and its days of sunshine and gladness too rare and 
precious, for man to afford to lose one of them by his own 
consent. 

“ But I fear I shall tire you with my egotism — the pro- 
verbial weakness of lovers and newly married people. You 
will probably have your own experience in time, so now I 
will tell you something about our friends. 

“ Towling was in Baltimore a few days ago, as jolly and 
generous as ever. Though I have plenty of work to do, he 
insisted upon my accepting a commission from him, besides 
buying the picture which I began before setting out on my 
travels, and which I have completed since my return. He 
has distinguished himself recently, and promises in time to 
become a high light in the world of art. 

“ Our little friend Hagget is doing a flourishing busi- 
ness. He often expresses to me a desire to do something 
for the benefit of his early benefactor, Mr. Hapton ; but of 
course that is impossible. He tells me that he would like 


426 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


to show his gratitude in the only way that it is possible for 
him to do so, and I tell him that the good old gentleman is 
very comfortable ; and, knowing that /le is grateful, pleased 
to see him increasing in prosperity ; but as to accepting 
pecuniary assistance from him or any one else, that is out of 
the question, and it would only give him pain to have it 
offered. 

“ He, our dear old friend, is now in very good health ; 
but not as happy as Elenor and I — he lives with us, and in- 
sists upon paying his board — would like to see him. The 
loss of his fortune has entailed a loss far more serious to him 
— the loss of the power of doing good. Your letters and 
those of your sister to him seem to give him more pleasure 
than any thing else ; and I am glad you write to him so often, 
I think you both occupy an especially warm corner of his 
heart, and I shall be glad when you return to America, on 
his account. 

“ You may tell Monsieur Pince, should you fall in with 
him, that Madame Trudeau is comfortably established in 
one of the best seminaries in this city, and seems contented 
and happy in her new home and occupation. Vv^e cherish 
her as a very dear friend. You will probably meet the little 
Frenchman again, as he intends to return from the Orient 
to Paris by way of Italy, of which country, he told me, he 
had not seen half enough. 

“ Before closing my letter, I must tell you that my dear 
wife wrote to her mother some time ago, asking her forgive- 
ness for having left her as she did. She told her all we know 
about the man Yorke, with whom her step-father wished to 
force her into a marriage, and assured her that nothing 
could ever have induced her to consent to such a thing ; her 
intuitive antipathy to the man being sufficient to forbid it, 
without the knowledge she has since gained of him. She 
received a most unexpected, and at the same time accepta- 
ble, reply to her letter. 

“ It seems that a few days after Elenor’s escape Tulip 
had returned home in a great rage. He accused his wife of 
being an accomplice in the affair — though he well knew she 
was not — but this was probably by way of excuse for his 
subsequent brutality. He only stayed a few days, beating 
her several times in that interval ; and when he disappeared, 
the Frenchwoman and every thing valuable disappeared with 
him. We may draw our own conclusions. 

“ The poor lady’s letter was posted in Vienna, whither she 
had gone and where she was living in poverty. 

“ Elenor was greatly afflicted when she received this let- 


FIRE AND ASHES, 


427 


ter, and immediately sent funds to defray her mother’s ex- 
penses to America, and we are expecting her arrival every 
day. 

‘‘And now, my dear friend, I have finished my letter, 
and with it the romance of my life ; and when I look back 
at the events of that life, from the time I first came to Balti- 
more to the day my lot was joined to that of the lovely wom- 
an who has blessed me with her love, it seems more like a 
story that I have read than one in which I have enacted an 
important part. 

“ With grateful regards to all those who have shown such 
unselfish interest in me and my affairs, I remain, as ever, 

“ Yours affectionately, 

“ James Alford.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

FIRE AND ASHES. 

It had been rumored for some time that Vesuvius was 
manifesting symptoms of an outbreak, and before the spring 
of that year, 18 — , was over, the volcano was really in an 
active state of eruption. 

The excitement among those travellers who happened to 
find themselves in Italy just then was intense. In Rome 
there was a great rush to secure passage on the steamer that 
plied between Porta d’Anzo and Naples, or the diligence^ 
while all the public vetture in the city were in immediate 
demand ; and one would have supposed that the eruption of 
a volcano was an affair of only a few hours’ duration from 
the haste manifested by every one to reach the point of at- 
traction. 

Gathwright secured passage on the steamer for his aunt, 
the Maxwells, the Wetherby’s, and himself — also Elsie 
Brown, whom Sylvia concluded to take with her. Elsie 
made some objections when told where she was going and 
for what reason ; but being assured there was no danger, 
and believing implicitly every thing that Sylvia or Oliver 
told her, finally yielded, with the proviso that she was not to 
be taken ‘ ‘ too nigh to that air place. 

It was a lovely morning when the little vessel steamed up 
the Bay of Naples — that charming and oft-described corner 
of the earth ; and our travellers stood in a group on the 
deck admiring the ever-changing, always beautiful pano- 


428 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


rama ; while Gathwright, who had spent much time in the 
modern Sodom, pointed out the localities of chief interest 
as they glided past them — Ischia, Capri, Procida, Baja, 
PozzLioli, where St. Paul first landed in Italy, and Sorrento, 
where Tasso first landed on earth, and where he would have 
done well to have stayed, instead of wandering to a less en- 
chanting region, to become the victim of a tyrant’s cruelty. 

Even Elsie Brown, the practical, was impressed with the 
wonderful beauty of the scene. 

“ My la !” she exclaimed, heaving a sigh — the unwonted 
emotion escaping in this way as the superfluous steam does 
through the safety-valve of an engine. 

“What’s the matter, Elsie?’’ asked Sylvia, turning to 
her handmaiden. 

“ My la !’’ she repeated, “ I never thunk to lay eyes onto 
the likes o’ this here — leastways, this side o’ Parydise. An’ 
to think that hell’s fire’s a cornin’ outen the yarth right here 
too.’’ 

“ Why, Elsie, how you talk !’’ said her mistress in a tone 
of reproof. 

Gathwright, who had also heard the speech, laughed 
heartily. “ Elsie’s about half right,’’ he said. 

“Ain’t I, Mister Getright ?’’ said Elsie. “Ain’t that 
yonder the mounting what you told me about?’’ pointing 
to Vesuvius, over which a black cloud of smoke was hang- 
ing. “ Where there’s so much smoke there mus’ be some 
fire, an’ where do the fire come from, I’d like to know ?’’ 

“ You certainly are a philosopher of the old school of 
brimstone and blazes, Elsie,’’ replied the gentleman, “ your 
young lady must acknowledge that.’’ 

“ 1 don’t know what that mout mean,” responded Elsie ; 
“ but one thing I does know — that air town,’’ pointing to 
Naples, “ is too nigh onter that air mounting to suit me.’’ 

Both her auditors laughed at her fears, and Sylvia assured 
her that the city was a long way from the mountain, and 
even should the fire turn that way that there was water 
enough between the two to put it out. 

“ Ah !’’ said Elsie, reassured, “ that bein’ the case. I’ll 
jest go on,’’ speaking as though it was optional with her 
whether she would go on or not, “ an’ I shan’t be nigh as 
skeered as I mout a been ef it was all dry Ian’ betwix’ an’ 
betwen.’’ 

“ Che vuole,, eccellenzal che vuole 7 Buy a little medal. 
It was brought up from Herculaneum yesterday — only yes- 
terday, eccellenza, 1 was there myself, and paid a big price 


FIRE AND ASHES, 


429 

for it ; but you may have it for tiue carlint/* holding up two 
fingers by way of illustration and emphasis, “ and that is 
! nothing — positively nothing for such a relic.’* 
i “ Go away with your medal, Ugo ; their illustrious ex- 
: cellencies don’t want your miserable medal — what would 
they do with such trash ? Here’s a beautiful Bacchus, ecceF 
lenza — fine bronze. I found that myself in Pompeii. I 
don’t pretend to have paid a big price for it,” sarcastically, 
” and you may have it for cinque,^'' holding up five fingers. 

!! ” Only think of that ! cinque ! You’ll not see any thing finer 
j in the museum.” 

” Get out, Giacomo ! Who do you suppose wants your 
, abominable Bacchus when he can get this lovely Venus ? 

; Look at it, eccellenza ! behold, eccellentissime ! Isn’t it 
I beautiful ? Sette carlini is all I want for it. O my treas- 
I ure ! my lovely Venus !” kissing it fondly, ” how I hate to 
I part with you ! But what can I do ? — mi bisogna mangiare 
^ maccherofie : ho fame. Vede eccellenza ! You might travel 
from one end of Italy to the other, and never meet with 
; such another opportunity. Take it, eccellhiza ! take it! 

I though it will almost break my heart to part with it — take it 
! for died soldi — there ! — and that’s nothing.” 

Thus is the newly arrived traveller assailed on all sides by 
j the voluble lazzaroni in the streets of Naples. They press 
around him buzzing like a swarm of bees, hustling and abus- 
ing each other in language that it is well the best Italian 
! scholar fails to comprehend ; while such as succeed in get- 
■ ting close enough to him offer to sell him valuable relics of 
I by-gone ages for a mere trifle — invariably beginning with 
j carlmi., about equivalent to dimes, and ending with soldi,, 

I equivalent to cents. 

I It is as much as the unfortunate victim can do to elbow 
I his way through the crowd, and after he has got free of it, 
he cannot walk fifty yards without being beset by another, 
so exactly like the first in appearance, that he is inclined to 
think his importunate friends have only hurried around 
through some by-street to waylay him a second time. It is a 
continual fight between him and the irrepressible lazzaroni 
from the time he lands in the city until he leaves it. 

From the manner in which one can knock and kick them 
! about with no sign of resentment on their part, he is apt to 
think them a cowardly set of beggars, these macaroni-eating 
^ fellows ; but let us be not too hasty in our judgment. Dur- 
ing the revolt of Masaniello, the heroic fish-monger, they did 
not prove themselves cowards, nor did they so at the time 
of the French invasion in 1799 ; and thieves though they are, 


430 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


and always were, they have never been the equals of a French 
mob in diablerie. 

When the French army invested Naples in 1799, and the 
Government entered into an armistice so disgraceful that it 
disgusted even the meanest of the citizens, these lazzaroni 
determined to defend the city themselves. The old prov- 
erb, “ See Naples and die,” was changed for the nonce to 
” Save Naples and die.” They seized the arms which had 
heretofore been denied them, and went forth, an undisci- 
plined, ragged rabble, to meet a well-appointed army of vet- 
erans ; and they fought, too — fought bravely and died hero- 
ically, turning their last looks on their beloved Napoli. 
Beaten back, those who were not killed or wounded under- 
took to hold the city against the invaders at all hazards. 
They selected two leaders, Michael and Paggio — names 
almost forgotten now, save by the lazzaroni themselves — 
and desperately maintained their position for three days, 
when the French, with frightful slaughter, succeeded in 
overpowering them. 

That they committed great excesses and were guilty of 
much unnecessary cruelty, is true ; but they fought like 
devils. Excesses and cruelty are the concomitants of war 
and civil commotion — and will be as long as the brute 
nature predominates in a large proportion of mankind — but 
the much-abused lazzaroni were really not so bad in that re- 
spect as the soldiery of some nations which make a boast of 
their superior civilization and profess to carry on what they 
call civilized warfare. 

When the Duke della Torre and his brother were mur- 
dered, the Duchess and her children were placed in their 
carriage, without insult or injury, and told that they might 
go whithersoever they chose. Alas, poor Marie Antoi- 
nette ! how much better had been thy fate hadst thou fallen 
into the hands of the lazzaroni ! 

But enough of these macaroni-eaters. There is much in 
their character that is interesting and amusing ; and without 
them Naples would not be what she is — the noisiest and live- 
liest city in Italy. 

During the great eruption of Vesuvius in 18 — , Naples 
was crowded with strangers, who had flocked there to wit- 
ness this grand phenomenon of nature, and the thieves, beg- 
gars, and vetturini did a brisk business. 

Every evening about dusk the people began to pour out 
of the city along the road to Portici, and all the night long 
the rough road up the rugged mountain, to where the Plu- 
tonic fires had broken forth, was alive with human insects, 


FIRE AND ASHES. 


431 

some laboriously crawling up, others coming down, re- 
minding one of nothing so much as the long processions of 
ants sometimes seen going to and fro between their habita- 
tions and some object on the slope of a neighboring hill. 

But these ants of a larger growth as they pressed forward 
to the brink of destruction, could hear the subterranean 
thunders roll, and feel the ground heave and shake beneath 
them, as if the old mountain were trying to shake the crawl- 
ing creatures from off his “rock-ribbed” sides. Yet up, 
up, up they went, though a river of fire surged and rolled 
along not a hundred yards from them, overwhelming vine- 
yards and villages, and carrying destruction and desolation 
in its irresistible progress ; while the cloud of sulphurous 
steam, mingled with dense smoke, floating above them, was 
suggestive of that place which Dante, with his black and 
scarlet imagination, has painted in a manner calculated to 
content the most demoniac demonologist who ever preached 
a fire and brimstone sermon to an unfortunate assemblage 
of terror-stricken Sunday-school children. 

When Sylvia had laughingly asked Elsie Brown to go with 
them up the mountain, the latter had replied, “ No, Miss 
Sylvy : I’m much obleeged to ye ; but this here’s as nigh 
onto the mouth of hell as I wants to git jest now and 
truly when they had passed the Hermitage and drew near to 
the craters — there were several open just below the old cone 
— it looked as though they were approaching the very por- 
tals of the infernal regions. “ Lasciate ogni speranza vio che 
enHate.'' They looked, half expecting to see it there amid 
the blaze of lurid light. What a scene for mortal man to 
look upon without a tremor ! On one side a mighty stream 
of living fire hissed and crashed as it poured over precipices 
and through deep gorges, never staying an instant in its 
slow but onward course. Slow — slow— but sure. Destruc- 
tion awaits the loiterer in its way. 

From the gigantic furnace where this Tartarian river had 
its source, flames mounted aloft, tossing huge stones with 
their fiery arms, and seeming to play with them with a hell- 
ish joy. Dark figures came and went, flitting through the 
glare like demons toiling mid the smoke and fire and steam, 
while thousands of mortals hastened onward to join this in- 
fernal crew, like doomed sinners driven forward by inexora- 
ble fate to take their allotted places among the legions of 
the damned. 

“ What a fearful scene !” said Sylvia as she clung to Har- 
old Gathwright’s arm. 

“ Are you afraid ?” asked Harold. 


43 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


“ Not at all,” she replied, ” and it seems strange to me 
that I am not.” 

Harold laughed. ” That is owing to the novelty of the 
situation,” he said, ” and the mental excitement consequent 
to it.” 

” I suppose that must be the reason,” said Sylvia ; ” for 
I think if I should dream of it, I should be filled with ter- 
ror.” 

” In that you would not be different from others,” said 
Harold, gently pressing her hand ; ” but really there is 
nothing to fear, dear. These volcanoes are, like a good 
many men, less dangerous to approach when they are raging 
than when they are quiescent.” 

” I don’t quite understand how that can be, Hal,” said 
Mrs. Rayburn, who stood on the other side of him. 

” It’s just this, aunty. When the old fellow — man or 
mountain — is firing away at this rate you know just exactly 
where he is, and how near you can come to him ; whereas 
when he is quiet — the more quiet the worse it is sometimes 
— you don’t know when he is going to break out and send 
you flying to the four quarters of the globe.” 

Just then a fearful cry was raised by one portion of the 
assembled multitude — a cry of warning it sounded like — and 
a sickening sensation of dread came over those who heard 
it. The majority of the people thought that the crust on 
which they stood was about to give way, and while some 
seemed paralyzed with fear, others fell on their knees and 
began to pray. It was a moment which none of those pres- 
ent have probably ever forgotten. Nothing happened, how- 
ever, and in a little while the panic-stricken crowd were re- 
assured by seeing people assembling at a certain spot talking 
and gesticulating vehemently. The mighty shadow of death 
which had appeared for an instant to hover over these trem- 
bling mortals was lifted, and many a sigh and gasp of relief 
was heard. 

” Something dreadful has surely happened,” said Sylvia 
excitedly. ” Let us hurry forward and see that our friends 
are all safe.” 

“Calm yourself, darling,” whispered Harold, pressing 
the nervous hand which rested on his arm firmly within his 
own ; ” it may be nothing very serious, after all — people are 
easily terrified sometimes when really there is little cause.” 

So saying he pressed forward as fast as he could — the two 
ladies clinging to his arms with a convulsive grasp — and 
looking about him in every direction as he went. 

“ I see them ! I see them !” he presently exclaimed. 


FIRE AND ASHES. 


433 


‘‘ There are Oliver and Miss Wetherby — f/iey are all right, 
at any rate,” pointing towards the spot to which the stream 
of people was now flowing from all quarters. 

” Thank God !” cried Mrs. Rayburn and Sylvia in a 
breath, and the latter’s hand returned the warm pressure of 
the one that held it. 

“ Make way, make way,” was heard directly in front of 
them ; and the throng of people parted, with exclamations 
of pity and sympathy, to make way for several men who 
bore a dark, limp burden among them. Gathwright turned 
away when he saw what the burden was, to spare his com- 
panions a nearer view of the horror ; and as he did so ran 
against Mr. Wetherby. 

” O Mr. Wetherby !” cried Sylvia, ” what has happened ?” 

” An accident,” he replied, with a confused, scared 
look, ” a dreadful accident. He is a — a friend of mine — I 
didn’t know he was here — fell and hurt himself.” He 
seemed in a hurry to go on. ” They are taking him to the 
Hermitage,” he continued, as he pushed past them, ” and 
I’m going to look after him.” 

They did not attempt to detain him ; but pressed on to 
where Oliver and Clarissa were standing, vainly trying, as 
they went along, to gather some knowledge as to the nature 
of the accident from the confused murmurs of the people. 

Oliver and Clarissa knew as little about the affair as they 
did themselves — indeed less, for they were not aware that 
Mr. Wetherby was acquainted with the injured man. They 
had seen him in the crowd close to where the accident had 
happened ; but did not know that he had been any more in- 
terested than any one would naturally be in the misfortunes 
of a fellow-creature. 

Together they all hurried down to the Hermitage, and 
leaving Oliver to take care of the ladies and look after their 
carriage, Gathwright entered the little chapel and inquired 
for Mr. Wetherby, who came out to him in a few minutes. 

He told the Englishman that his friend was very badly — 
indeed, fatally burned, having fallen on a bed of hot lava. 
His name was Yorke, and he was an American. He was 
sensible ; but would not probably live twenty-four hours, 
and he, Wetherby, intended to remain with him and do all 
he could for him until death relieved him from his sufferings. 

While he was yet speaking, a man came into the chapel 
and told him that his friend was anxiously asking for him ; 
and begging Harold to ask Mrs. Rayburn to kindly under- 
take the care of his daughter during his absence, he bade 
him good-night and left him. 


434 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


When Gathwright rejoined the party outside, he told them 
that Mr. Wetherby would remain with his friend — he did not 
think it necessary to mention the name of the unfortunate 
— and having delivered himself of the message to his aunt, 
sat thinking, as they drove back to Naples, of the strange 
connection between those two men, one of whom he knew 
to be an unprincipled scamp. 

He knew something of the visits of Yorke to Wetherby in 
Rome ; but as that was during the excitement of the Carni- 
val, and the trouble subsequently occasioned by Oliver Max- 
well’s illness, he had not thought much about it. Now, 
however, he puzzled his head with all manner of conjectures, 
which were all very far from the truth. If, like the manly, 
honest fellow that he was, he had not been afraid of doing 
an injustice — even in his thoughts — to the one, merely be- 
cause he happened to know that the other was a rascal, his 
conjectures might not have been so wide of the mark. 

Clarissa’s thoughts were busy on the same subject — 
though to her the problem was presented in a different 
form. Gathwright, remembering what he had once said 
about this Yorke, to some of those present, had purposely 
withheld the name ; and Clarissa now tried to think of some 
one who might be considered a friend of her father ; but she 
could only recall, with sorrow, the fact that her father had 
no friends. Yorke was the only man she knew of who had 
ever been on intimate terms with him. “ Could it be he ? 
If so, perhaps he might die.” Gathwright had not told 
them all that AVetherby had told him. She felt her heart 
leap within her at the thought. Was it exultation ? She 
checked the feeling at once, and felt shocked, horrified at 
herself. Her nature was too gentle to admit a hope within 
her breast where that hope was connected with the suffering 
of a fellow creature. Ah no ! better herself to suffer. 
Then she sat still and prayed — prayed for him — for in her 
soul she believed he was the unfortunate — and that God 
would deliver her from temptation. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

APPROACHING THE END. 

The day after the accident, towards evening, Mr. Weth- 
erby returned to Naples. His friend was dead, and he in- 
tended to return to the Hermitage the next day to attend to 


APPROACHING THE END. 


43S 


his interment. As soon as Gathwright and Oliver heard 
this, they volunteered to accompany him, and after a little 
hesitation he accepted their offer. 

After the funeral, which took place in a chapel at Portici, 
he told his daughter that the victim of the accident was 
Yorke, and that his death necessitated his, Wetherby’s, im- 
mediate departure for the United States. 

“ I cannot take you with me, my dear,” he said, “but 
you can slay here with your friends, and return with them to 
Rome, where I will rejoin you as soon as I can get through 
with the business I have to attend to, for I have no inten- 
tion of remaining in America.” 

” But, papa,” said Clarissa tearfully, ” I would a- great 
deal rather go with you.” She spoke the truth, though, at 
the same time, her heart was heavy with the thought of 
parting with that other one who had become so dear to her 
of late. ” Ah, papa!” she continued, laying her head on 
his bosom, while he wrapped his nervous arms lovingly 
about her, ” I feel as though I had seen so little of you.” 

‘‘Yes, darling,” he replied, making no attempt to hide 
the tears with which his eyes were brimming over ; ‘‘ yes, 
darling, that is true ; but for this once you must let me have 
my way. The duty I have before me done, the balance of 
my days shall be devoted to making you happy.” 

She had some idea as to the nature of the duty he spoke 
of thus vaguely ; bdt fortunately no suspicion had ever 
crossed his mind that she could, by any chance, have 
guessed aught concerning him and his affairs. Had she 
given him the slightest cause to suspect such a thing now, 
there is no telling but that he would have carried out that 
resolve which he had formed in Rome ; but for which, 
Yorke being removed from his path, there now seemed no 
longer any necessity. 

‘‘ When I come back,” he continued, as Clarissa did not 
speak, ‘ ‘ we will begin life anew ; we will go everywhere and 
see every thing, and I will try to make your life bright and 
beautiful as it should be.” 

Seeing that it was useless to make any further objections 
to the proposed arrangement, the daughter said nothing 
more, and the father then sought an interview with Mrs. 
Rayburn. He told that lady that he was compelled to 
make a hasty journey to America, and asked if she would 
undertake the care of Clarissa until her return to Rome. 
She readily consented to do so ; and leaving with her suffi- 
cient funds to defray all the young lady’s expenses, he 
thanked her with more warmth than so slight a favor seemed 


436 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


to deserve, and retired to make preparations for his departure. 

The first thing he did when he entered his room was to 
lock and bolt the door behind him ; and then he opened his 
trunk and took from it a packet of papers. Untying the 
string that held these together, he removed the topmost one, 
which was a letter addressed to his daughter, and tying the 
bundle together again, returned it to his trunk. The letter 
he opened and read. It was a long document, and I can 
only transcribe a portion of it here. 

“ My poor, unhappy child,” it began. 

” For when you read this, I know you will be over- 
whelmed with the bitterness of grief. I have sought for 
some way to spare you, but have found none : you must 
either know what I am now about to tell you from me, or 
from another who would be harsh and cruel, while he 
pierced your gentle, loving heart to the quick, exulting in 
the pain he inflicted. 

” O my God ! how can I tell you, my sweet confiding 
girl, of the disgrace attached to you through me — your 
father ? Alas ! I have no other course left open to me. 
My sin has found me out through you — through you who 
might have made my life so bright and happy. 

” Had you been less gentle, less loving;, less honest — had 
you been wilful, hard, selfish, and cold, 1 might have gone 
on living my lie out, and perhaps have become hardened ; 
but as it is — you, what you are, so pure, so innocent — I 
what I am — I cannot bear it. I cannot look at you without 
thinking how deeply I have wronged you — am wronging 
you every day that I live. I cannot kiss you without feeling 
that 1 am polluting your fair soul. 

” O God ! when I look back at the years during which 
I have been the slave of a devil, while you, so near akin to 
an angel, were pouring out your heart’s love on an unwor- 
thy parent, I feel driven on to the desperate deed which is 
to end all — at least for me. What there may be in store for 
you, my innocent and unfortunate one, I dare not think ; 
but God surely will protect one so good, so true.” 

He then went on to give her an account of himself from 
his early manhood upwards : how he had first fallen into 
vicious ways, and then, his weak nature guided by one who 
was strong for evil, dropped a degree lower into crime ; 
how he was now at last driven to the wall by the relentless 
villain whose miserable, cowardly tool he had been, and saw 
no way of escape for himself — and but a partial one for her 
— save in self-destruction. ” Oh, most lame and impotent 
conclusion !” 


APPROACHING THE END. 


437 


Weak and cowardly to the last, he had seen no other 
course but this. While really seeking an avenue of escape 
for himself, he had tried to deceive himself with the specious 
plea that it was for her — his daughter’s sake— to rid her of a 
disgraceful connection, and at the same time the threatened 
persecution of an unprincipled scoundrel — he was about to 
take this desperate step. When he, the father, was dead, the 
worst would be known — Yorke would have no disgraceful 
secret with which to act upon the mind of the daughter and 
terrify her into submission. The secret would be no longer 
a secret to her, and she would be at liberty to spurn him 
with the contempt he deserved. 

This was the sophistical reasoning with which this man 
had argued his case, and he had immediately set to work to 
prepare for the event. He had first arranged in order cer- 
tain papers that he had in his desk — representing stocks of 
value in various parts of Europe and Great Britain — and 
with these he had gone to a legal functionary in Rome, and 
executed a deed transferring the whole to some person in 
the United States. That done, he had written to the differ- 
ent companies from which he had purchased the stocks, tell- 
ing them what he had done, and promising to inform them 
of the name and address of the person to whom the transfer 
had been made at another time. 

This act had made him a comparatively poor man. 
Nothing remained to him but the sum of ten thousand dol- 
lars he had inherited from his wife, and which was invested 
in England. He had made a will leaving this money to his 
daughter, which will he had placed in a drawer in his desk, 
and had then written the letter from which we have just 
read an extract. He had told Clarissa, besides what has 
already been stated, all that he had done, and where his will 
was to be found ; and had directed her to carry the bundle 
of papers — among which was the deed of transfer — to the 
United States and deliver them herself into the hands of the 
person to whom they were addressed. 

All that was wanted to complete the tragedy for which he 
had been making all these preparations was the consummation 
of the final act. He had received a letter from Yorke a day 
or two previous to his departure from Rome, telling him 
that he, the writer, had received the certificates of his wife’s 
death, and would shortly take pleasure in submitting them 
to his — Wetherby’s — inspection. This decided him as to 
the when and the where : Rome should see him no more. 

That night on Vesuvius it had occurred to him that no 
place or time could be better for the contemplated deed, 


43 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


and then his death might be imputed to accident. There 
were spots where the noxious gases generated in the bowels 
of the earth were so strong, that no one dared approach 
them. He did not wish to die of sutfocation ; but he could 
go to the near neighborhood of one of these spots, and when 
his body was found, as it must surely be, sooner or later, it 
would be said that he had ventured too near, and been over- 
taken by death before he could get away. 

Ah ! but there was his letter to Clarissa, at that moment 
in his trunk : he had forgotten that. However, in any 
event he would choose that s/ie should know that he had 
been driven to his death by that man ; thus creating in her 
mind so intense a horror of her father’s enemy as to pre- 
vent her listening to any proposals to cover up that father’s 
disgrace by sacrificing herself. If she chose, she could keep 
the true secret of his death to herself — the mere mode in 
which it came about could add but little to the weight of 
her grief. 

These thoughts were passing through his mind as he 
walked a little in the rear of Oliver and Clarissa. 

Though neither his daughter nor her lover had as yet con- 
fided in him — he had not invited their confidence, rather re- 
pelled it — he was not blind to the growing attachment be- 
tween them ; and as he looked at them now, when he was 
about to bid farewell to the world and all it contained, the 
bitterness of his heart was somewhat softened by the thought 
that she, the only creature in it whom he loved, would have 
the support and sympathy of one true and noble soul, at 
least. 

He had slowly dropped behind, and, with a great sigh, was 
turning away — after taking one last loving look at his child 
— when he saw Yorke watching the unconscious pair as a 
tiger watches his prey. The presence of his enemy there 
roused no emotion of astonishment in his mind ; the one 
absorbing thought that filled him at that moment deadened 
all sensibility to emotion of any kind. His first impulse 
was to get away before that evil eye should light upon and 
recognize him ; but conquering that impulse, he stopped and 
watched the watcher. 

Yorke followed Oliver and Clarissa, keeping his malig- 
nant eyes upon them, and Wetherby followed him, until 
they were quite close to the craters. 

There was no danger in this close proximity, as one might 
suppose there would be, because in the eruption of i8 — , of 
which I write, there were several — I believe seven — small 
craters open, and the subterranean forces were divided be- 


APPROACHmc THE END, 


439 


tween them. A river of lava ran from these craters ; but it 
was confined within adamantine banks, and none but the 
foolhardy or the careless could possibly meet with misfor- 
tune. 

The young couple stood for a few minutes and looked at 
the raging caldron, and then turned as if to retrace their 
steps. As they did so, Yorke, who evidently did not desire 
to be seen by them, stepped back behind a group of people 
standing near, at the same time keeping his eyes fastened on 
those whom he wished to avoid. He was on the very brink 
of the lava-river— though he did not seem to be aware of it 
— and as he stepped backwards he stumbled. It was at that 
moment the cry of warning was raised by those who saw it. 
Several persons made an effort to grasp him — and even 
Wetherby, actuated by an impulse of humanity towards the 
man whose death would be the assurance of life for himself, 
rushed forward to rescue him — but all too late ; the hour of 
retribution for a sinful life was at hand, and he fell headlong 
to his doom. 

He was dragged off the red, consuming mass, and we know 
the rest. 

What were the feelings of the man who thus, through the 
death of another, found himself restored to life, and a pos- 
sibility of future happiness, we can only imagine. Banish- 
ing all enmity from his mind, and ignoring the fact that the 
dying man had been a hard and cruel tyrant to him, he 
stayed by him, gently nursing and tending him to the end. 

The first thing he had done after Yorke’s death was to 
write to Mrs. Gwyn, informing her of the fact. Though he 
knew there was no great love between the brother and sister, 
he did not care to break the news to the latter in person — ■ 
an unpleasant duty at all times, but especially so when we 
know that the relations between the dead and the living 
have not been amicable. 

Having perused, from beginning to end, the letter which 
he had written, as one already dead, to his daughter, Weth- 
^rby folded it up, with a sigh of relief, and put it in his 
breast pocket. He then locked his trunk and went out, 
going towards the Mola, a sort of stone pier that juts out 
into the bay. 

Seeking the extreme end of the Mola, he stood for a long 
time contemplating the scene before him. For the first time 
he was struck by the charming beauty of nature. The man 
had been so wrapped up in himself — his affairs and his 
troubles — that he had had no room for other thoughts, and 
he gazed now with astonishment on what had heretofore 


440 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


been as a dead letter to him. He drank in, with the delight 
of a new-born^ soul, the sweet breath that came from the 
bright blue waters, and wondered at the rapture that filled 
him, lifting his spirit as it were, out of the lower level in 
which it had grovelled. Hope — hope in a happier future — 
had opened a fresh volume of life to him, though as yet he 
hardly knew it. 

Before he left the Mola, he took the letter from his 
pocket, and tearing it into shreds, scattered it on the waves, 
which seemed to leap joyously to receive it ; and then ex- 
tracting the minute vial from its secret hiding-place — that 
vial which he had hugged and cherished as a friend — he 
gazed upon it with a shudder, and cast it from him with 
loathing, as one might do with a false friend. No danger 
that any fisherman’s net would ever drag it up from the 
deep to which he had consigned it ; the evil genius within it 
would remain imprisoned there to the end of time — and 
the world. 

When Mr. Wetherby arrived at his apartments in Rome, 
he went directly to his study, telling the servant to send 
Mrs. Gwyn to him. When she entered the room he looked 
at her earnestly for a moment, but could perceive no change 
in her. She did not affect a grief that she did not feel, 
and in her heart she believed that her brother’s loss was the 
world’s gain ; she had long since ceased to look upon him 
as any thing but an agent of evil. 

“You received my letter, Mrs. Gwyn?’* said the master, 
when she was seated 

“Yes, sir,’’ was the reply. “It was an awful death.” 
That was all she said, and that was said so quietly and so 
free from all emotion, that Wetherby looked at her with some 
astonishment. 

Some moments elapsed before he said any thing more, and 
then he asked, “ Did you know that your brother was in 
Naples ?” 

“ No, sir, I did not. I knew he was here : he came the 
very day you left. The servant told him where you had 
gone. He didn’t ask for me, and I didn’t see him.” 

“ Then he must have gone straight on to Naples. He 
died penitent,” added the speaker. 

“ I’m glad to hear it,” said the woman, still quietly. 
Then, as if she suddenly remembered something which gave 
the subject under discussion more interest in her eyes, she 
asked, with some excitement, “ Did he have a priest ? did 
he confess ?” 


APPROACHING THE END, 


441 


“ Yes ; that is just what I wished to speak to you about. 
He confessed to the priest, and partook of the sacrament ; 
and after he had done so, he sent for me — I was waiting 
outside while the priest was with him. When I went to him 
he seemed to be in a much better frame of mind than he 
had been before. It is needless to tell you all that passed 
between us ; but there was one great wrong he did years ago 
which he told me might be rectified with your assistance.” 

” Ah !” said the woman, with a gasp, pressing her hand 
on her heart. 

“You understand what I refer to ?” 

“ Yes. He told you — ” She did not seem to be able to 
say more, but sat with her eyes fixed earnestly on his face, 
her hands clasped nervously on her bosom, while he com- 
pleted what she had begun. 

‘ ‘ He told me that he had stolen two children — little in- 
fants, hoping to make some profit out of them ; but that 
you had hidden them from him, and that you know now 
where they are. ’ ' 

“ Yes, yes — but did he tell you no more ?” 

“ He told me who their parents were. They are both 
dead now ; but I know one who has a near interest in them 
— or would have if he knew of their existence.” 

“ Thank God !” said Mrs. Gwyn, her face all aglow with 
a great joy. “ I was afraid this secret had died with him.” 

“ When he told me this he was very near his end, Mrs. 
Gwyn,” continued Mr. Wetherby, “ and he asked me to 
beg you to forgive him for all the wrong and ill-usage you 
had suffered from him.” 

“ Freely, freely I forgive,” she said, covering her face 
with her hands, and shedding tears for him, for the first 
time in many years. “ Knowing what he was,” she contin- 
ued, “ my heart had turned from him ; but now that he has 
atoned for the past — even at the last moment I can freely 
forgive him and grieve for him.” 

When this burst of emotion had subsided, she told her 
companion all she knew about the two children how her 
brother had left them with her for several years, and how 
she had parted with them because he had notified her that 
he intended to take them from her. 

“ And why didn’t you let him have them ? asked Weth- 
erby. 

“Because I didn’t trust him,” she replied. “ He told 
me they were his own children ; but I didn t believe him, 
and I didn’t know what he intended to do with them. Per- 
haps I did wrong ; perhaps he intended to restore them to 


442 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


their parents, but how was I to know that he would do so ? 
I had known him all the days of his life, and I had never 
known any thing but evil of him. I placed them where I 
knew I could always find them again, and if 1 could have 
prevailed upon him to satisfy me with regard to his inten- 
tions, I would have given them up to him ; but though he 
acknowledged at last that he was in no ways related to them, 
he obstinately refused to tell me more, and I thought any 
thing would be better than trusting them to him. But, as I 
said, perhaps I did wrong, though God knows I meant the 
b^st.’’ 

She then went on to tell how she had lost the little 
property she had possessed, and been forced to seek em- 
ployment in the city, and how, after many years, she ‘had 
met the babes she had parted trom with so much sorrow — 
now grown into the estate of man and maidenhood — in the 
middle of the Atlantic Ocean ? 

“ Are you sure of this asked her auditor excitedly, 
when she came to this part of her story. 

“ Sure of it ! Certainly I am, sir,’' she replied ; ‘‘ and 
there is the woman, Elsie Brown, who can tell you the 
same. She was the servant who came to the door that 
Christmas morn, when I left the little ones at the farmer’s 
house. She didn’t recognize me when we met, and would 
never have done so but for a chance. If you wish, sir, you 
can write to her, and ask her about it.” 

” No, it is unnecessary, Mrs. Gwyn ; I am satisfied, and 
I would rather she should know nothing about this matter 
at present. ” 

” Very well, sir ; just as you please. And perhaps it will 
be better, for she is a rude sort of person, and has little 
judgment. But there is one thing that I forgot to tell you, 
sir.” 

” What is that ?” 

” The woman who came with my brother when he 
brought the children to me gave me a little locket, in which 
were two pictures ; it was on the little girl’s neck when I 
left her at Mr. Maxwell’s. My brother knew nothing about 
these pictures — they were, I supposed, the likenesses of the 
children’s parents — and by advertising them I hoped, at one 
time, to get at the truth ; but I never succeeded. ’ ’ 

” And where are these pictures now ?” 

” Elsie says the school-master at Atwell has them — his 
name is Dinning.” 

Wetherby wrote the names of the man and the place in 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


443 

his note-book, and as Mrs. Gwyn had no further informa- 
tion to impart, she soon after retired. 

“ Strange, strange,’’ said Wetherby, pondering over what 
he had heard. “ Truly human affairs seem to be guided by 
an unseen power. And Ragan told me it was he who at- 
tempted to murder that young man ; and he was following 
him with murderous thoughts when the accident happened 
that caused his own death. Retribution,” he murmured, 
after a few minutes’ pause. ” And me — me — what retribu- 
tion is in store for me ? O God ! forgive me, and spare 
me, for her sake.” He covered his face with his hands, and 
sat thus a long time without moving. Perhaps he was praying. 

He was roused by Mrs. Gwyn, who brought him wine and 
food. He partook sparingly of both ; and then going to his 
bedchamber, he opened his trunk and took from it the bun- 
dle of papers. Returning to his study, he extracted the 
deed ot transfer that he had made several months previous 
from the bundle, and locked the latter up in his desk. He 
then went to the legal functionary who made the deed, and 
executed a duplicate of it. 

That night he spent in copying the papers, and making 
another package of these copies and the duplicate deed, he 
tied them together, and placed them in a conspicuous place 
in the desk. 

Then he wrote a letter to his daughter, in which he told 
her what disposition to make of the papers in case he should 
be lost at sea ; for he wished to be certain that justice would 
be done even though it were not permitted him to do it. 
For the same reason he gave her an account of her friends 
Oliver and Sylvia, charging her with the disclosure of the 
secret of their birth should any fatal accident happen to him 
during his journey. 

This letter he placed on the top of the bundle of papers, 
and locking his desk, gave the key to Mrs. Gwyn, telling 
her to give it to Clarissa to keep until his return. 1 he orig- 
inal set of papers and the deed he replaced in his trunk, and 
thus having taken all due precautions in the event of his 
mission being brought to an untimely end, he started on his 
long journey. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

AFTER MANY DAYS. 

In the midst of quite an extensive garden nestled a pretty 
cottage. It was a fanciful little building, with oriel win^ 


444 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


dows, a wide piazza in front, and porticos to the wings, 
ornamented with rustic work and festooned with vines and 
creepers. At each end of the piazza was a stand covered 
with rare and beautiful plants, forming two gigantic and 
gorgeous bouquets, while the surrounding garden was a 
wilderness of flowers, that filled the air with a delicious per- 
fume. It was such a home as every artist and poet dreams 
of, and but few are ever fortunate enough to attain to, save 
in their dreams. 

This garden was not laid out like the regulation gardens, 
in which taste and beauty are forced to give place to science 
as represented by geometrical figures — circles, ellipses, tri- 
angles, squares, etc. — and Nature is taught that her wayward 
wildness is not the thing.^ and cannot be tolerated ; she must 
learn Euclid. Pleasant walks meandered hither and thither 
in every direction through this garden, spreading out, here 
and there, into spacious retreats — as a little stream will 
sometimes spread itself into a little pond — sheltered by tall 
growing shrubs, and furnished with rustic seats. 

In one of these delightful retreats an old gentleman was 
walking back and forth, with his hands clasped behind him 
and his eyes bent on the ground. He held a little volume in 
one of his hands, with his index finger thrust between the 
leaves, and he was probably meditating on what he had been 
reading. Now and then he stopped in his walk and looked 
up, seeming to listen to a sound that was ever in the air, 
mingling its monotonous cadence with the songs of the 
birds, the rustle of the leaves, and the sighs of the breeze. 
It was the ceaseless roll of the surf on the beach, which 
stretched its white length along at no great distance from 
the cottage. 

Presently he sat down on one of the rustic seats, and 
opening his book, began to read, in a clear, low, sonorous 
voice : 

** When in the down I sink my head, 

Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath ; 

Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death, 

Nor can I dream of thee as dead. 

“ I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn, 

When all our path wa§ fresh with dew. 

And all the bugle breezes blew 
Reveill^e to the breaking morn.’' 

Here he stopped and looked up with meditation in his 
clear and truthful eyes ; but in an instant the expression 
changed to one of agitated astonishment, and he rose to 
his feet, A thin^ pale, trembling man stood before him— a 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


445 


man whom he evidently knew, and whose appearance there 
seemed to fill him with surprise and pain. The two ap 
peared to be equally affected, and several minutes elapsed 
before either spoke. The old gentleman was the first to 
do so. 

“ William ! — William Pringle !” he exclaimed, his voice 
trembling with emotion, “ what does this mean ? How dare 
you? But stay,** a new light breaking upon him, “you 
would hardly dare come here unless you meant to repair the 
wrong you did.** 

“ You are right, Mr. Hapton,** replied the other; “ it is 
for that 1 have sought you — to repair the wrong as far as the 
restitution of your property to you may be said to repair it. 
The base ingratitude and villany with which I repaid your 
kindness to me can never be atoned in this life.** 

The old gentleman, who had recovered his equanimity, 
looked at the speaker with a sad, sweet smile. 

“You are wrong there, William,’* he said. “All sins 
may be atoned in this life ; and if they are not, there is 
little hope for you in the next. But we will not discuss that 
now. Sit down and I will listen patiently to you, for I sup- 
pose you have much to tell me, and I will gladly hear and 
believe any thing in extenuation of your fault.’’ 

“ Oh, sir !** said the other, as they both sat down, 
“ would to God that I could say something in extenuation 
of the foul and unpardonable crime which you, with your 
usual generosity, call by so mild a name ; but I have noth- 
ing to say — nothing ! — except that I would long ago have 
come, as I have come now, to restore that of which I 
robbed you, and cast myself upon your mercy, had I not 
been a weak and miserable coward, as well as a thief.** Mr. 
Hapton said nothing, but sat looking earnestly at his com- 
panion, who continued, “ I have endured the torments of the 
damned since the day I wronged you, sir — your money has 
been a torturing devil to me — sending the fires of hell 
through me whenever I touched it.** 

“ I cannot understand this,** said the old man ; “ I can- 
not understand how you could have gone on suffering thus 
when it was so easy to do what you have at last found the 
courage to do. * * 

“ Ah, sir ! it was not so easy as you may suppose. Men 
seldom commit a great crime alone — they like to have a 
companion in guilt, and I had an accomplice — one of rnore 
strength of will and more wicked than I, if that be possible, 
who first tempted and advised me, and afterwards held me 
in an iron grip. I was too weak to defy him, and suffered 


446 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


from his tyranny and that of my conscience until I was 
driven to desperation/' 

“ Ay, my poor William," said Mr. Hapton in a pitying 
tone, " I knew you were weak, and for that reason I first 
took you under my protection ; you were with me a long 
time — nearly twenty years — and I had never found any 
cause to doubt your honesty, and for that reason I trusted 
you." 

‘ ‘ Alas ! that is too true, sir, ' ' said the other, bowing his 
head in shame. 

" But how any man could prevent you from doing what 
you knew to be right, if you really desired to do so," con- 
tinued Mr. Hapton, " I cannot understand — even though 
that man first led you into wrong-doing." 

" It is not in the nature of such as you to understand it," 
said Pringle ; "an honest man — strong and reliant in his very 
honesty — cannot comprehend the really cowardly instincts 
of the thief. But I will endeavor to explain my position to 
you, sir, if you will have the patience to listen to me." 

" Go on," said the old merchant ; "I told you I would 
listen patiently to all you had to say." 

" This accomplice whom I told you of was a bold, bad 
man, utterly devoid of principle and of conscience — if it be- 
comes one like me to speak of such things. He knew that 
I had repented of the act which he had in the first place 
tempted me to, and that I was desirous of undoing what I 
had done ; and as he lived entirely on the fruits of my sin, 
of course he would prevent this if he could. I have a 
daughter — perhaps you remember her, sir ? 

"Yes, I remember a shy, gentle, little girl, who used to 
come sometimes to the counting-house, and with whom I 
managed with difficulty to make friends. ’ ’ 

" This man knew how I loved my innocent, confiding 
child, and how she loved and believed in me — me so un- 
worthy of such love — and threatened me with exposure to 
her. What could I do ? I would rather have died than 
have her know me for what I really was ; to loathe and de- 
spise me. When I left the United States, running away 
from justice, she was at school in the country — far away 
from the scene of my crime, and where I knew she would 
never by any chance hear of it ; but /le knew where she was. 
After her school days were over and she came to me in 
Switzerland, where I had taken refuge — under my true 
name, Wetherby, for Pringle is not my name — I mustered 
up courage — a spurious courage, as you will presently see — 
and wrote a letter to you, offering to restore what I had 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


447 


Stolen from you, intending, as soon as I should hear from 
you, to confess all to her, thus forestalling Ragan. Alas 
sir ! I had not the strength of will to carry out this good res- 
olution ; and I destroyed the letter as soon as it was writ- 
ten, living out my lie, for the sake of the love I didn’t de- 
serve, and which I feared to lose.” 

” Ah, my poor William !” said the old man, looking sor- 
rowfully upon him, as he sat with his head hanging down 
and tears starting to his eyes, ” to what a strait have thy 
sms brought thee, and how I pity that unfortunate girl !” 

You may well pity her, sir, in that she is the daughter 
of such a father/’ 

“ That is not exactly what I meant. I was thinking of 
what her sorrow must be now that she knows all, for I sup- 
pose that you at last found resolution to fulfil your original 
purpose.” 

*' No, sir, no, I did not ; and I thank God that she is still 
ignorant of my crime. He, in His great mercy, saw fit to 
spare her that.” 

” Ah ! — But this man, your accomplice, will surely divulge 
all to her when he finds out what you have done.” 

” He cannot ; he is dead.” 

“Dead?” 

“Yes, sir. But I will finish my story, and you will then 
understand how little credit is due to me — even now. As 
long as Ragan confined his demands upon me to money, I 
was content to suffer in silence ; but a few months ago he 
startled me with the request that I would sanction a mar- 
riage between him and my daughter, provided he could win 
her consent. This was more than I could bear. Bad as I 
am myself, I could not contemplate such a union — the union 
of the dove and the vulture — except with a feeling of horror.. 
I knew well that he would use his knowledge of my mis- 
deeds to influence the mind of my child, and I could not tell 
how she would act ; but knowing how she loved me, I 
feared the worst. My resolve was taken almost as soon as 
he had made his proposition. I arranged my affairs so that 
the wealth I had robbed you of, and which had been a sore 
burden to me, should be restored to you, wrote a full con- 
fession of my sins to my poor Clarissa — 1 wished her to 
know all, so that this man could not use his knowledge as a 
power over her — and procured a potent poison, with which, 
to put an end to my life. I was saved from this crowning 
sin, however, by what I would have believed in any case but 
my own to have been the interposition of Divine Provi- 
dence. I was almost in the act of doing the dreadful deed 


44 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


I contemplated, when I saw the man who had driven me to 
desperation struck down by the hand of God before my 
eyes/* 

“ Ah !” ejaculated Mr. Hap ton, who had been gazing at 
his companion while he was speaking, like one fascinated ; 
and then, after a few minutes’ silence, he said, “ So she was 
spared humiliation and sorrow, and you have come to me a 
penitent — sincere, I truly believe. The knowledge of these 
two facts gives me more real joy than the restoration of my 
worldly goods.’' 

“ Oh, sir !” cried Wetherby, with a ring of joy in his 
voice, “ I may hope then for your forgiveness ?” 

“ How can man expect to be forgiven himself, unless he 
learns to forgive ?” said the other. 

“ Most noble and generous of men,” continued Weth- 
erby, ” how can I ever prove to you how truly I repent the 
wrong I did you ?” 

” By walking henceforth in the way of the righteous. 
But now let us try and bury the past, and — •’ ’ 

” Stay, sir,” said Wetherby, interrupting him, ” I have 
more yet to tell you before that past can be buried.” 

The old gentleman looked at him inquiringly. 

” We must go back now to the time your brother Henry 
was killed,” continued the speaker. 

A faint shadow, like the shadow of a cloud, passed over 
the face of the listener ; but a slight twitching about the 
firm mouth was the only other sign of emotion he betrayed. 
He had been thinking of that brother and of his own wife — 
both so dear, so early lost — when he was reading Tenny- 
son’s exquisite lines. He had been thinking of them, and 
they, who had died in their youth, now seemed to him, in 
his old age, like two well-beloved children who had been 
taken from him. He wondered what new revelation was 
coming, and listened anxiously, and somewhat nervously, 
while Wetherby proceeded. 

” A great wrong was done you at that time, sir,” he con- 
tinued, ” of which I, though indirectly and unwittingly the 
cause, was not the author. I had but a short time previous 
to that sad event become intimate with Ragan. I did not 
then know that he was such a villain as he afterwards 
proved, and when you confided to me the duty of settling 
your brother’s affairs and transporting the bodies of himself 
and his wife to Baltimore, instead of attending to it myself, 
1 employed him as my agent. 

” My reason for doing this was that I had recently mar- 
ried a young lady in Washington City, and 1 thought this 


AFTER MANY DA YS. 


449 


would be a good opportunity to spend some time in the near 
neighborhood of my wife. Our marriage had been clandes- 
tine, owing to the opposition of her parents, and she was 
still living with them ; and so, while I sent an irresponsible 
agent to attend to a delicate mission confided to myself, I 
was living in Washington, having daily secret interviews with 
my wife. She would gladly have told all to her parents and 
come to share my home in Baltimore ; but I, weak and 
cowardly, as I have always been, refused to listen to such a 
thing, fearing the anger of her father ; and so we lived on 
until it was no longer possible to conceal the secret, when I 
left her to bear the brunt of the storm, only going to her 
when summoned to her death-bed, shortly after our daughter 
was born. 

‘ ‘ But, to come back to the communication that I wish to 
make to you. Ragan willingly undertook to discharge the 
duty that I proposed to shift upon him ; and having settled 
Mr. Henry’s affairs, brought the two bodies to Washington 
and delivered them over to me, and I carried them on to 
Baltimore. In looking over the accounts that he gave me, 
I found some discrepancies — for he was no business man — 
which I asked him to explain, when he laughingly said he 
had not undertaken the job for nothing. I was frightened 
at my own complicity in the affair, and managed, by the 
science of figures, which I understood well, to make all ap- 
pear square and honest ; and as you never made any further 
inquiries, trusting implicitly in me, so the matter rested. 
This was my first great step in the downward road ; and 
from that day Ragan possessed an influence over me which I 
could never shake off.’' 

He stopped here, and his auditor, thinking he had finished 
his story, said, “ This is bad enough, William ; but of slight 
consequence as compared with what afterwards happened, 
and—” 

” Wait, wait, sir,” interrupted the other excitedly ; ” let me 
tell you all — this is but the prelude to what I have to disclose. 
This man, Ragan, on his death-bed, made a confession, 
the purport of which is of the utmost importance to you — ” 
Here he stopped again, as if at a loss how to proceed, while 
Mr. Hapton sat looking at him expectantly and anxiously. 
Suddenly he rose from his seat and took two or three steps 
away and back again, wringing his hands as he did so. 
” How shall I tell you ?” he exclaimed. ” God help me, 
how can I tell you that through me — miserable, wretched 
man that I am — you have been robbed of a great consoling 
joy through all these years.’* 


AFTER MANY YEARS, 


450 

The old man had also risen to his feet. “ What do you 
mean ?” he cried, seizing the other by the wrist, and drag- 
ging him towards himself. “ Go on, man ! Tell me all at 
once ! This is more than I can bear !” 

“ Have patience with me, sir,” said Wetherby plaintivdy ; 
” it is my purpose to do so — I have no object in concealing 
aught from you ; but my feelings overcame me.” 

Mr. Hapton loosened his hold of Wetherby ’s wrist, and said 
sorrowfully, almost penitently, ” Forgive me, William ; I for- 
got myself in a moment of excitement : a strange hope filled 
my soul — a wild delusion of my imagination. Come, sit 
down again,” he continued, with the gentleness with which 
one would speak to a frightened child, ” and I will wait 
patiently until you are ready to proceed.” 

Wetherby sat down, while the other sat beside him, look- 
ing earnestly at him, and after a little went on with his 
story. ” Ragan confessed to me,” he said, ” that before 
Mrs. Henry Hapton died, she had given birth to two living 
children — a boy and a girl.” The receiver of this surpris- 
ing intelligence seemed wonderfully calm after the excite- 
ment he had exhibited only a few minutes before. A little 
gasp — a slight catching of the breath — and a contraction of 
the fingers was all the sign he gave of any emotion ; he had 
evidently put a strong constraint upon himself. 

” The infants were under the care of an old woman who 
had attended Mrs. Hapton in her illness,” continued Weth- 
erby. ” The nearest physician was twenty miles away-; and 
the woman told Ragan that she had deemed it useless to 
send for him when the lady was taken. He, Ragan, deter- 
mined to conceal the birth of these children, hoping to make 
you pay him well for he secret at some future day ; and as 
there was only one other person who could swear to their 
existence, he paid the old woman to keep the secret to her- 
self in case any inquiries were made. 

“ He took the children some time later and placed them 
under the care of a nurse, who kept them about a year, when 
he carried them to his sister — a most excellent woman. 
With her they remained several years, when he notified her 
that he would shortly come to relieve her of the responsi- 
bility. She had learned to love the little ones, and know- 
ing her brother to be an unscrupulous scoundrel, she didn’t 
believe he meant any good by them, and hid them from 
him ; leaving them at a place where they were well cared 
for, and grew up beloved, and believing themselves to be 
the nephew and niece of their protectors.” 

The feelings which the old man had thus far kept under 


CONCLUSION, 


451 


control now got the better of him. He grasped his compan- 
ion by the hand, and rising to his feet, forced him up with 
him. “ Where are they now he asked, in a voice husky 
with suppressed excitement. “ Tell me — tell me quickly !” 

“In Italy. ^ The young man is studying art, and his 
sister is with him. “ 

“ Ah ! — ah ! — I knew it ! I knew it ! My heart told me 
so !“ and letting go the hand of Wetherby, who stood star- 
ing at him in speechless amazement, the old merchant, a 
flood of joyous light filling his tearful eyes, fell on his knees, 
and raising his hands on high, cried, in a voice whose 
happy, grateful ring the other never forgot, “ Merciful 
Father ! I thank Thee. After many days Thou hast blessed 
thy servant. * ' 


CHAPTER XXX. 

CONCLUSION. 

The cottage described in the last chapter was a part of 
the paternal inheritance of Elenor Weston. Shortly after 
Mr. Weston’s death, his widow had determined to take up 
her abode in Europe, and the cottage had been leased for a 
term of years ; but the lease having expired shortly after the 
marriage of the proprietress, it had not been renewed ; and 
for this summer Alford and his wife, Mrs. Weston and Mr. 
Hapton, were its occupants. 

The artist found plenty of employment for his pencil amid 
the beautiful scenery of the neighborhood, and Elenor, when 
her household occupations did not prevent, always joined 
him in his pleasant excursions ; her graceful figure being 
often introduced into his sketches, and adding a great charm 
to them — at least in his estimation. 

Mrs. Weston — she had dropped the name of her last hus- 
band and renewed her claim on that of the first — spent her 
time with a novel of the light and loose French school in 
her hands, and Mr. Hapton between books of altogether an- 
other sort, and solitary walks in the country or along the 
sea-shore. 

After the scene in the garden, which has just been de- 
scribed, Mr. Hapton took his visitor to the house. Alford 
and his young wife having gone on a sketching tour that 
morning, and not yet returned ; and Mrs. Weston — quondam 
Tulip — being deep in the mysteries of an intrigue in high 
life, in her own chamber, the two retired to the apartments 


452 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


which had been specially set apart for the old merchant's 
use. 

When they were seated Wetherby produced a package of 
papers that he handed to his companion, explaining the 
contents as he did so. Mr. Hapton placed them in his desk 
without looking over them, and then Wetherby bethought 
him of the miniatures which were in the possession of the 
school-master, and which he had forgotten to mention be- 
fore. 

“ Ah !’' said the old man, this is well. I remember that 
my brother and his wife had their miniatures painted when 
they were on a visit to Baltimore — I have often wondered 
what became of them — and if these are the same pictures, 
they will establish the identity of their children beyond a 
doubt.’* 

Wetherby was introduced to the family as an acquaintance 
of Mr. Hapton ’s who had recently returned from Europe ; 
but after dinner the latter took Alford aside and confided to 
him the real nature of the errand on which their guest had 
come. The young man was both astonished and delighted. 

“ It would seem, my dear son,” said Mr. Hapton, ” that 
the Lord had led your footsteps to the habitation of these 
two dear children in order that I, their nearest relative, 
should be brought into communion with them.” 

” It does indeed, sir,” replied Alford, ” and thankful I 
am that it has been so — that your generous kindness to me 
has not been without its reward.” 

” ‘ Cast thy bread upon the waters, for after many days 
thou shalt find it,’ ” said the old man solemnly. 

The next day, leaving his guest to the attentive care of 
Alford and Elenor, Mr. Hapton started on a journey to At- 
well, whither he had resolved at once to go in search of the 
miniatures. Arrived at the village, he went straight to the 
dwelling of the venerable school-master. 

Mr. Dinning heard the name of his visitor and the cause 
of his visit with astonishment. “Aha!” he said, rubbing 
his hands together with delight, “ didn’t I tell old Davy 
Maxwell so ! didn’t I tell him that those children were not 
born of clodhoppers ? Ay, ay, that I did ; and, like the 
sensible man that he was, he acted upon my advice,, and let 
the boy have his way about the painting.’' 

“ Then it was by your advice,” said Mr. Hapton, “ that 
Oliver was permitted to follow the bent of his genius ?” 

“ Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Dinning, “ in a measure I may 
say it was. The old man was at first opposed to it : he was 
a plain old farmer, and didn’t understand how painting pic- 


CONCLUSION, 


453 


tiires could be the serious business of a man’s life ; but he 
loved the boy dearly, and finding he was bent upon it, gave 
in without any great degree of persuasion on my part. But 
you have come to see the pictures, sir. I saw them years 
ago, and have but a slight recollection of them — the pack- 
age which was left in my charge of course I have never 
opened ; but I know they are in it.” 

So saying, he opened his desk, which looked as though it 
might have been his twin brother in age and shabbiness, and 
took from it the package he had held so sacred. 

” Here it is, respected sir,” he continued, handing it to 
his visitor ; ” here it is, just as I received it ; and the duty 
of opening it should devolve upon you.” 

Mr. Hapton took the package, and without uttering a 
word proceeded to open it — his hands trembling a little as 
he did so. When the wrapping was removed, the contents 
were disclosed — a few loose papers and a little square paper 
box. He laid the papers on the desk, and opened the box, 
within which an old-fashioned locket of red gold was lying 
in a bed of cotton- wool. Touching the spring of the locket, 
it flew open, revealing two portraits — the one a handsome 
young man, with dark, curling, auburn hair, and full brown 
eyes ; the other, a young woman, with a face of purely 
French type — beautiful of its kind, and a fitting mate for its 
companion. 

The old man gazed at the pictures long and earnestly, 
while tears gathered in his eyes. ” Henry ! O my bro- 
ther !” he cried at last, in a voice full of anguish ; and 
bending over the worm-eaten desk, he wept freely while the 
old grief of so long ago was renewed for the moment. 

” Tears— bitter tears !” But tears are not always bitter. 
As rain cometh to the parched earth, they sometimes come 
to the seared heart to refresh it, and then they are sweet. 
Ah, man of many sorrows ! hast thou not tasted of their 
sweetness ? 

When Mr. Hapton raised his head, the shadow of the 
cloud had passed away ; and with a sweet, hopeful smile, he 
handed the pictures to his companion. 

“Ah me!” said the school-master, looking at them ad- 
miringly; “how beautiful they are, and how like what his 

father was the lad is !” . i i- 

” Yes,” was the response. “ I remarked it the first time 
I saw him ; but I never dreamed then that my poor Henry 
had a living representative on earth : if I had, I think there 
is something within me that would have led me to the truth. 
As it is, I have warmly loved him and his sister since 1 


454 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


knew them. But a merciful God has brought this secret to 
light at last ; and though I may have but a few years left in 
which to enjoy this new blessing, I am thankful for His 
goodness.” 

“ ‘ Thou shalt hide them in the secret of Thy presence 
from the pride of man ; thou shalt keep them secretly in a 
pavilion from the strife of tongues,’ ” said the school-master 
devoutly. 

” * Blessed be the Lord, for He hath showed me His mar- 
vellous kindness in a strong city,’ ” responded his visitor. 

That night Mr. Hapton remained the guest of the school- 
master, who had too much good sense and true politeness to 
apologize for the frugal style of his housekeeping, which he 
very well knew the other could understand without explana- 
tions. 

They sat up late talking over the past — these old men to 
whom the past had become almost a dream — and he who 
had taken so much delight in storing the minds of the two 
in whom they both seemed equally interested, recalled many 
traits in their characters that were interesting to the other. 

Mr. Hapton could fully appreciate the great learning of 
his host, which exhibited itself during their conversation, 
but without pedantry, and with a modesty most uncommon 
to the genus scholaris ; and the next morning they parted as 
old friends, with a high opinion of each other. 

During his homeward journey the old merchant fixed 
upon a plan by which he might repay — in part at least — the 
debt of gratitude that he felt he owed the good dominie for 
the care that had been bestowed upon the education of his 
brother’s children. 

As soon as he reached home he looked over the papers 
that Wetherby had given him ; and finding himself once 
more a rich man, explained his scheme to Alford and 
Elenor, who were delighted with it, and promised their as- 
sistance in carrying it through. 

With the help of the artist’s taste and pencil, designs were 
made for a school-house with a pretty cottage adjoining ; 
and workmen were engaged to begin the erection of them at 
once. When these were completed and furnished, Mr. 
Dinning was to be asked to take charge, with a liberal salary 
provided for his maintenance, and the school opened as a 
free institution of learning. 

Elenor entered with enthusiasm into the project, and took 
upon herself the laying off of the little plot of ground sur- 
rounding the cottage, whither she proposed to transplant 
some of her own flowers and shrubs. Even Mrs. Weston 


CONCLUSION, 


455 


became interested, and offered some advice with regard to 
the little garden, though flowers were a part of God’s crea- 
tion in which she took no great delight, and bulbous plants 
were her abhorrence — especially tulips. She was an un- 
looked-for ally ; but she was probably surfeited with the in- 
trigues and counter-intrigues that made up the sum and sub- 
stance of the books she habitually read, and gladly turned to 
any thing for a change. 

Having arranged these matters to his satisfaction, Mr. 
Hapton, accompanied by Wetherby, started for Europe, 
leaving the superintendence of the work to Alford and his 
wife. 

The world — that is, the idle, sight-seeing world — had left 
Rome ; but the busy artist world, delighting in the calm 
which follows the exodus of the nerve-trying, distracting 
army of travellers who crowd the galleries and studios dur- 
ing the winter months, still remained to finish its oft-inter- 
rupted labors. And now commenced those pleasant re- 
unions, when the artists — a generous, whole-souled tribe at 
bottom — laying at rest the jealousies and ill-will engendered 
in the heat of rivalry, united to pass the time agreeably 
among themselves. 

Oliver and Sylvia Maxwell had become great favorites 
with the brethren of the brush and chisel and their families ; 
and the entertainments they gave, in return for the hospital- 
ities extended to themselves, were enlivened by the presence 
of the choicest spirits. It was towards the close of one of 
these entertainments, when a portion of the guests had 
already departed, that two gentlemen, who bore about them 
the evidence of recent travel, were ushered in. 

The remaining guests, who were just preparing to leave, 
were somewhat astonished at the appearance of these two 
travel-stained strangers at so late an hour. 

The young host, who saw them as soon as they entered, 
hastened, with an exclamation of surprise, to welcome them, 
and was immediately clasped in the arms of the elder of the 
two ; and his sister coming forward the next instant, was 
received in like manner, while the old gentleman seemed 
overcome with emotion, for which neither could account. 

‘‘ My children,” said Mr. Hapton, when he had recov- 
ered sufficient command of himself to speak, ” you doubt- 
less wonder what errand has brought me so far in my old 
age, and why meeting you has caused me such agitation ; 
but if you will listen to me you will soon understand it, and 
see that I have at least a partial right to call you my children. ’ ’ 


45 ^ 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Most of those present, thinking they were about to be in- 
truders on a family scene, began to make a move to depart ; 
but the old gentleman stopped them. 

“ Oliver,” he said, ” these are your friends, and as such 
I would be glad to have them hear what I have to say. ’ * 

The guests, who were really curious to know what it all 
meant, remained where they were ; and just then, Clarissa 
Wetherby, who had been in the next room while this little 
scene was in progress, entered and looked around with sur- 
prise. In an instant her glance lighted on her father, who 
was still standing near the door, and, with a cry of joy, she 
sprung to his side, and clasping her arms about his neck, 
kissed him over and over again, while she wept and smiled 
by turns. 

Attention was now attracted to the father and daughter ; 
and as soon as the latter, under the soothing caresses of the 
former, had become more calm, Mr. Hapton went to them. 

” This is your daughter, William,” he said, taking the 
hand of the fair young creature, and looking at her admir- 
ingly. ” I remember her as a little girl. I will kiss you, 
my dear ; I am an old man, and an old "friend of your 
father.” 

Clarissa received this declaration with a grateful look. A 
friend of her father, who had so few friends, was entitled fo 
a large share of her love, and the kiss which this noble-look- 
ing man bestowed upon her seemed to her like a blessing. 

“And now,” continued Mr. Hapton, “let us all be 
seated, for the night is far advanced, and I have much to 
say.” So saying, he took Oliver and Sylvia — still in a state 
of mystified wonder — by their hands, and leading them to a 
sofa, took his seat, placing one on each side of him. 

It would be folly to attempt to describe the feelings of the 
brother and sister while they listened to the wonderful tale 
of which they were the hero and heroine, or to depict their 
joy at finding they were not without kith and kin in the 
world ; but were nearly related to one whom they already 
loved and revered. 

As the narrator proceeded with his account of the long- 
gone past in their lives, a faint glimmer of recollection 
seemed to dawn upon his nephew and niece ; and when at 
the conclusion of his story he drew forth the locket, and 
showed them the pictures of their parents, it appeared to 
supply the link wanting in the chain of memory. 

Sylvia took the trinket in her hand, and gazed earnestly 
upon each picture for a few minutes, with tears in her eyes. 

“ Ah, yes !” she said, “ I remember now. I used to be 


CONCLUSION. 


4S7 


allowed to wear it sometimes — when I was a good girl — and 
Oilie and 1 would sit for hours and look at the pictures and 
kiss them. Don’t you remember, Oilie ?” 

“Yes, yes,’’ replied Oliver thoughtfully, as his sister 
handed the precious relic to him, “ it seems to me I do.’’ 
The woman’s quicker instincts had grasped the end of the 
thread in the tangled skein first. “ But isnT it strange,” he 
continued, “ that we should have forgotten all* about them ?” 

“ Not at all, my son,” said Mr. Hapton. “You were 
mere children when you last saw them — and you couldn’t 
have forgotten them entirely, either ; for you told me once 
that you had some faint remembrance of having seen por- 
traits of your parents, though you couldn’t tell me what sort 
of pictures they were. ’ ’ 

“ Ah yes !” said the young man ; and those few words, 
like stepping-stones to memory, were sufficient to carry him 
back to the time to which his sister had just referred : “ it 
comes back to me now. But where were we living then, 
Sylvy ? It was not at Uncle David’s farm — no, I’m sure it 
was not.” 

“ No,” replied Sylvia ; “so it must have been with the 
woman Mr. Hap — ” 

“ Uncle, my dear,” interrupted Mr. Hapton, with a 
smile, and patting her on the head. 

“ Uncle Hapton has just told us about,” continued the 
girl blushing. “Now I remember !” she cried suddenly, 
after a few moments’ thoughtful consideration. “ We lived 
in a little cottage. Don’t you recollect the little duck pond 
— and the little ducks — and how we used to make them 
swim ?” 

“ Ah !” said Oliver, a new gleam of intelligence lighting 
up his face, “ and the white pig with a black snout.” 

“ And the pigeons,” said his sister — “ oh ! the beautiful 
pigeons !” 

They were gathering up the links as they sat there gazing 
into each other’s eyes, while the spectators looked on in 
silence. 

And now Sylvia, looking upward, like Saint Cecilia, with 
an expression of expectant inspiration, appeared to think in- 
tently. 

“ What is it, Sylvy asked her brother presently. 

“ I am trying to recall her name, Oilie” — for Mr. Hap- 
ton, in the course of liis narrative, had mentioned no name 
except his brother’s. 

When the travellers had arrived at No. — Piazza di 
Spagna, Mr. Wetherby had invited his companion into his own 


45 ^ 


AFTER MA AT V .YEARS. 


apartments, to free himself of some of the dust of the Cam- 
pagna before making the visit he contemplated to the story 
above, but which he refused to delay long enough to make 
a change of clothing. The former had taken this opportu- 
nity to inform Mrs. Gwyn of what was about to happen ; 
and when Sylvia was trying to recall that name so long for- 
gotten, a pale, anxious face was peering in at the doorway, 
the facing of which was clutched by a trembling hand with 
a nervous grip. 

“ Stay !” continued the girl, holding up her hand to im- 
pose silence, while her eyes unconsciously wandered to the 
dorway, and rested, with a dreamy kind of stare, on that 
white face, looking weird and ghostlike in the half-shadow. 
“ Stay ! I can see her now — she did not see the face on 
which her bodily eyes were fixed ; but with her spiritual 
eyes she saw another face — another face which was yet the 
same — “ how good, how kind she always was ! Oh ! if I 
could but remember her name !” 

Ah ! what was that which came tottering towards her, 
out of the half-shadows into the light ? A woman ! a pale, 
trembling, agitated woman, who stopped half way, and held 
out her hands like one blind and helpless — a white-haired, 
withered woman, who cried, in a voice half smothered by 
emotion, “ O my precious darlings ! don’t you remember 
Mistress Margaret ?’ * 

Every one present turned to this woman, coming forth 
from the darkness like an apparition, with looks of astonish- 
ment ; and Oliver and Sylvia leaped to their feet as if 
moved by one impulse. 

“ It is she ! it is she !*’ they exclaimed, and went to meet 
her. 

** O my children !** sobbed the old woman, as they 
wound their arms lovingly around her, and kissed her 
cheeks all wet with tears of joy ; “ how long I have prayed 
for this hour ! But at last, at last it is come !” 

“ Ah, Mrs. Gwyn !” said Sylvia, when the excitement 
caused by this new revelation had somewhat subsided, “ now 
I understand how it was that a strange perception came over 
me at times that I had met you befoje. But why didn’t you 
tell us ?’ ’ 

Mrs. Gwyn could not answer this question ; for just then 
Mr. Hapton came forward to thank her for all she had done 
for his brother’s children, and immediately after the guests 
began to take leave of their young host and hostess, con- 
gratulating them on this strange, but pleasing event in their 
lives. 


CONCLUSION, 


459 


“What did you think of the tableaux, ‘ Jeemes ' ? “ 
asked one of his companion, as they walked towards their 
respective dens. 

“ Perfectly charming,” replied “ Jeemes,” “ and I mean 
to reproduce one of them on canvas.” 

“ Which is that ?” 

“ The last, where the old lady makes her appearance like 
a ghost in the play.” 

“Ghost of your grandmother!” was the ironical re- 
joinder. 

Ghost of their grandmother, if you please, but not of 
mine. But wasn’t it fine ?” 

“ Ay, that it was. What a splendid creature that girl is ! 
Our friend Gathwright is to be envied.” 

“ Is he going to marry her ? — or rather, I should ask, is 
she going to marry him 

“ Yes, I believe that’s a settled fact.” 

“ Ah, happy man ! But he is a tip-top fellow, and wor- 
thy of such a mate. By the way, where was he all the 
time ? I’m sure he was there in the early part of the even- 
ing.” 

“ Didn’t you see him ?” 

“ No ; and I thought he must have left before the arrival 
of the old gent.” 

“ No, indeed. He was standing off to himself in a cor- 
ner, enjoying the scene and looking as pleased as Punch.” 

“ It’s strange he had nothing to say when it was all 
over.” 

“ I expect he had enough to say after we had all left, 
which he didn’t choose to say before company.” 

“ Ah ! And they say Maxwell — Hapton, I suppose we 
must call him now — is going to marry that Miss Wetherby.” 

“ Yes, they say so, and they generally nose out these 
things pretty correctly. She’s a beauty, and no mistake ; 
but rather fragile looking. What a lovely contrast she and 
her sister-in-law that is to be, make !” 

“ A goddess and a sylph. But I say, Jerry my boy, the 
newly-elected governor will have his hands quite full, won’t 

“Yes, what with giving and taking, so he will.” 

We often wonder, when we meet new friends, to what 
that meeting will lead, and when and under what circum- 
stances we shall part with them ; whether^ it will be with 
smiles, the offspring of hope — hope, that is, if they have 
proved pleasant friends, which bids us look forward to a 


1 


4^0 AFTER MANY YEARS. 

happy reunion at some future day, or with tears, the over- 
flowing of the fount of sorrow — sorrow that perchance the 
parting is forever. 

Sometimes in reading a book we are grieved to bid good- 
by to our new-made friends — for we know we shall not 
meet them again — sometimes, but, alas ! not always ; for 
there are other sometimes when we are only too glad to be 
rid of them. 

If there are those — as doubtless there are — who have felt 
bored by the people introduced to their acquaintance by the 
present writer, he sincerely hopes they have done as he him- 
self has learned to do under like circumstances — cut them 
at the outstart. But if there are those — and he need hardly 
say he trusts there are — who have found the friends he has 
presented to them pleasant friends, and cultivated their ac- 
quaintance thus far, they will probably be pleased to know 
just a little more about them before bidding them a final 
adieu. 

Mr. Wetherby had desired to transfer the villa near Lau- 
sanne to his old employer, to pay in part, he said, the in- 
terest which the latter should have received on his money, 
which interest had chiefly gone to Ragan as hush money ; 
but to this proposition the old gentleman had refused to 
listen. 

Let the past be buried between us forever, William,'' he 
had said. “ As things have turned out, I am more than 
satisfied ; and the villa shall remain yours to do with as you 
will. And now I have a proposition of my own to make. 
As it is my intention to stay in Europe probably several 
years, I will leave the investments as they now stand ; but 
I am too old to attend to my affairs myself, and will re- 
quire a business agent. I know you are fully capable, and 
I will employ you in that capacity. Don't say a word," as 
the other had attempted to interrupt him ; " I will have my 
own way in this matter. ' ' 

So it was arranged ; and no one besides the two most 
concerned, and Alford and his wife, ever knew that Wetherby 
had so deeply wronged this generous man. 

Clarissa, perceiving no change in her father's household 
expenses — for they had never lived extravagantly — had no 
suspicion of the truth ; and her engagement with Oliver be- 
ing an established fact, duly ratified, her happiness was 
made complete when she observed that the nervous, trou- 
bled look which had given her so much sorrow had grad- 
ually disappeared, and that he for whom she had wept and 
prayed in times past appeared to be altogether a different 


CONCLUSION, 


461 

man. She never questioned herself as to the cause of this 
change, but accepted it as a living, welcome truth, with the 
loving sweetness of her confiding nature. 

Mr. Hapton had some money in his possession belonging 
to his nephew and niece— their paternal inheritance— which, 
with the interest accruing thereto since it came into his 
hands, amounted to a considerable sum. This he trans- 
ferred to them at once, after which he settled annuities on 
Mrs. Gwyn and Elsie Brown. This latter faithful and 
humble friend, who had, according to her usual custom, re- 
tired early to her bed, awaked in the morning to find the 
hopes she had cherished so long, realized at last, and had 
well-nigh gone daft. 

The winter following the events described in this closing 
chapter, there w'as what is called a double wedding in 
Rome. Mr. and Mrs. Alford were among the guests on 
this occasion, as was also Mrs. Weston, quondam Tulip, 
quondam Weston, who, having heard of Tulip’s arrival in 
the United States, had gladly accepted the opportunity of- 
fered by the departure of her son-in-law and his wife for 
Rome, to escape beyond seas, for she could not feel com- 
fortable unless there were at least two or three thousand 
miles between herself and her late lord. 

Dimplechin was also there, accompanied by an energetic 
little black-eyed lady, who had undertaken the sole charge 
of him and the handsome fortune he had recently inherited 
from his kind and indulgent father, who departed this life 
happy in the belief that his son was a great genius. 

“ My Gus will be a famous man, sir, a famous man. 
Why, sir, he talks French, Italian, and High Dutch like a 
book,” were his last words to the attending physician. 

Had he lived to see his Gus in tow of that energetic little 
black-eyed lady, he would have learned that that embryo 
famous man not only knew how to talk French, Italian, and 
German — which was what the. old man meant by High Dutch 
— but also how to walk Spanish. Of one thing, at least, we may 
be sure : so long as Mrs. Dimple should have her wits about 
her, Mr. Dimple — so they were called by those who knew 
them — would never again become the prey of the chevalier 
dlindustrie, 

Oliver and Clarissa remained in Rome, where the former 
was surely laying the foundation for future distinction in his 
profession ; but Gathwright and his bride accompanied aunt 
Polly on a visit to England, where they purposed spending 
the honeymoon. 

That interesting epoch had not yet come to a close when 


462 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


Harold one day came across a little volume of manuscript 
poems. The handwriting was his wife’s, so he took the lib- 
erty of looking over them. Perhaps he did wrong — I’ll not 
pretend to decide so delicate a question — but certain it is, 
when his wife came in and caught him in the act, of the 
two she looked most like the culprit. 

“ Ah, my darling !” he said, without laying down the 
volume, you must forgive me for prying into your secrets ; 
but I really couldn’t resist the temptation. Any thing in my 
sweet wife’s handwriting is precious to me,” and slipping 
his arm around her waist he drew her to him, ” and espe- 
cially so when it reveals to me her inner life, of which at 
present I know so little.” 

Sylvia blushed, but said nothing, and laid her head on her 
husband’s shoulder, listening, with a throbbing heart, while 
he read aloud the thoughts she had penned in secret. 

Harold took possession of the ms., and in a few days it 
was in the hands of a publisher, Sylvia having, rather ner- 
vously, given her consent to such disposition of it. When 
it appeared in print, which was after their return to Rome, 
the happy thoughts clothed in sweet and simple language 
were read with pleasure by all true lovers of poetry ; and 
the young authoress, hidden under a nom de plume — that in- 
visible cloak of writers — enjoyed, with modest but exquisite 
delight, the praise bestowed upon the productions of her 
fancy. 

And now, dear reader, we must bid our friends^farewell. 
Having settled them — happily, let us trust — for life, we 
have done with their generation. Adieu* mes amis : thus far 
may we go — no farther. 


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Deacon Cranky is not dead. Though he is known in every neighbor- 
hood, he is not the “Wandering Jew.” He is a '‘thorn in the flesh;” 
and possibly he survives for the same reason that nettles grow. 

Many think he is a social necessity. He is an old sinner, and every- 
where he makes things lively. His words are as smooth as oil, and his 
smile is as charming as a vision of beauty ; but he is the very incarnation 
of deception. 

Perhaps his mission on earth is to develop the patience of the saints. 

A very handsome volume — and amusing. — Buffalo Express. 

The purpose of this story is admirable. — Examiner and Chronicle. 

A charming story. One entire edition was taken up by advance orders. — Troy Whig. 

Is a handsome volume, and a book that ought to have a large circulation.— 

Herald, Phila. 

Cannot fail to meet with success. The story is written in a very spirited style. 
— Albany County Democrat. 

Compact, forcible, strong. The argument is lucid, and the conclusions logical. 
It is exceedingly readable. — Newark, N. J., Daily Advertiser. 

It will render good service. We commend the book to all church goers. Its 
author is himself an honored pattern of what a minister of the Word should be. — Albany 
Journal, 

This is a racy, interesting book— one of the richest we have perused in a long 
time. Its wholesome truths should be treasured up and acted upon. — Gospel Banner, 
Augusta, Me. 

It cannot help having a strong moral influence upon the community, and is of 
such an interesting character, that it cannot fail of readers.— 6'AeZsea, Mass., Telegraph 
and Pioneer. 

A vigorous and charming story. If the author were not a minister and a close 
observer of human nature as seen from the standpoint of the clergy, he could never have 
written so admirable a book as “Deacon Cranky. — Troy Times. 

We cordially welcome this book, and thousands of Christian hearts will respond 
to its faithful delineation of Christian character and church life. We hope every Pastor 
and every Sunday-school Library will procure copies for circulation. — National Baptist, 
Phila. 

This book should be in every Sunday-school library in the country. Some bene- 
factor should purchase a million copies, and give them a gratuitous distribution, for the 
lessons therein inculcated are of incalculable value to every church member. — Tioga, Pa., 
Express. 

The story is told with considerable “go,” and seasoned with a good deal of spice. 
A biting protest against the evils which it impales. It deserves a good circulation. The 
book is flavored by an earnest evangelicism, which it respects and exalts. — Philadelphia 
Epitome of Literature, 

A plain speaking, out-and-out plea for spirituality in the church. Deacon Cranky 
is an “ old sinner,” sure enough. The story, as an exhibition of what goes forward in 
some fashionable churches, is more true to the life than we wish it were. We hope the 
book will be read. — Chicago Standard. 

He was an old sinner. Mr. Guirey shows him up in vigorous style We are glad to 
learn that he is making a wide tour through the land, and by his hypocrisy, teaching 
churches true spirituality. Two extracts are selected— the first showing how he kills 
prayer meetings, and the second showing up the frauds perpetrated in church fairs 
under the sacred name of charity : . . . — Church Union. 

A bright and lively story, in which Deacon Cranky shows his familiar characteris- 
tics in church fairs, choir troubles, neck-tie parties, etc. There is an earnestness and 
reality in the story which is prominent throughout the whole work. Deacon Cranky ii 
a “ human looking-glass in which many of us may see our own faces.” We are glad that 
such a book has been written, and hope it may have, as it justly deserves, an extensive sale. 
It is gotten up in good style, with clear type, and nicely ho\m6..— Life- Boat, Dayton, O. 

The ubiquitous “ troubler of Zion ” is well described in the character of Deacon 
Cranky, as presented by this very readable book. Mr. Guirey has succeeded well in his 
portraiture of a number of the characters in Plymouth Avenue Church, some as noble 
and sympathizing, as zealous and prudent helpers as anj’’ pastor finds in any church. 
The touches of sarcasm to be found in the book are no detriment to it, only serving to 
bring out the faults and virtues of the members of Plymouth Avenue Church in stronger 
colors, and tending to deepen the effect on its readers. It is a book which will doubtless 
have a large circulation, — New York Baptist Weekly, 


21 


THE AUTHOKS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY’S DESORIPnVE LIST. 


The Buccaneers. 

A Historical Hovel of the days of William III. and Louis 
XIV. By Capt. Randolph Jones. Large 12mo, 551 
pp., paper, $1.00 ; cloth, extra, ink and gold $1.50 

A novel of the future.— iV. O. Times. 

Of peculiar interest. — Qwmcy {III.) Whig, 

A literary bonanza.— Aetu York Tribune. 

Pleasant and instructive.— Nw^aZo Courier. 

It is a well written story.— A^. Y. Telegram. 

Live, exciting, spicy.— /S^Zar Spangled Banner, 

A novel of novels. — Lxbertytown^ Md.^ Banner. 

A story of great power, and original in plot.— American Bookseller. 

The events are as wonderful as the actors.— Francisco Alta California, 

A really valuable book, under the veil of stirring fictional narrative.— Lmis 

Admirable in plot, dramatic in movement, and fascinating in word-Daintine> — 
St. Mary^s {Md.) Beacon. 

Sufficiently stirring to satisfy the keenest thirst for adventure without beine sen- 
sational. —.BaZZ^morc Gazette. ^ 

As a specimen of pure historical romance The Buccaneers stands apart and 
alone. The author shows a careful study of his materials.— LtZerary World. 

Is fraught with historical information and interest. It is not only a thrilling 
narrative, but one that is refreshing. Highly meritorious.— Louis Christian, ^ 

So much of early historic lore is blended with the story, that it combines not only 
the attraction of romance, but history as well, that it has more of a romantic color than 
fiction itself. — N. Y. Hebrew Leader. 

Certainly contrives very ingeniously to interweave the system with the web of 
well authenticated history. Curious in the nature of that singular episode of the West 
India Buccaneers. — Chicago Herald, 

A thrilling story. The word painting is admirable— scenes which captivate the 
senses by their romantic charm. The pictures are drawn with artistic grace, and the 
descriptions are true to historical traditions. — Kansas City Times, 

Treats historical incidents and characters fairly, and has a vein of exciting ro- 
mance. A vigorous writer whose plots are active, alive with constant interest, and 
whose characters are drawn with much skill. — San Francisco Call, 

Manly vigor and historic accuracy that win the confidence of his readars as he leads 
them step by step through the windings of a thrilling story of chivalric bravery in “ye 
olden time.” It is admirably gotten up, and merits a large circulation.— NaZZmorc 
Methodist Protestant. 

Is a history with a romance woven through it, which makes it specially interesting 
to the general reader. Capt. Jones has shown great tact, and there are few things finer 
than his prologue of “ Four Old Men in History.” This alone stamps him as an author 
second to few. Vacillating human passions are well depicted, as are also the steadfast- 
ness of woman’s love and self-forgetfulness. — Syracuse Standard. 

A good, solid, historical novel. Will please all lovers of correct English, strong 
mentality, and rhetorical beauty. Critics have compared it with Bulwer in style, Dumas 
in plot and narrative, and Irving in intensity of interest. A work of extraordinary de- 
lineations. The leading characters have been epitomized as follows : Mon tbars— grand 
in one virtue and a thousand crimes ; Nativa— child of heavenly grace and mortal 
beauty ; Laurent— believing nothing, fearing nothing, sparing nothing ; Isabel— fero- 
cious in beauty, adoring in friendship, consuming in hate. — San Francisco Post. 

This is a story founded on some of the most daring and remarkable exploits of the 
Buccaneers, and gives a very entertaining and interesting history of events in Maryland 
and Virginia during their time. It is full of thrilling adventures, so piquant in sentiment 
and so thoroughly alive with the animation of the bold and ambitious spirits whose acts 
it records with extraordinary power, that it certainly is one of the very best novels that has 
been placed before the public for many years. The book is free from the absurd impossi- 
bilities and the reckless display of the imagination which characterize many of the 
writings of the day. — Dayton {Q.) Life^Boat. 

The essence of such a romance is, that it shall deal with remarkable adventures, and, 
at the same time, be strong and exciting. Victor Hugo’s “ L’Homme Qui Bit” was of 
this character, and in its incidents and personages was far more unreal and much less 
interesting than this book of the Buccaneers. Maryland readers will be especially at- 
tracted by a Maryland book that deals largely with Maryland during the colonial period, 
and which, among others, has John Coade and William Fendall and Philip Calvert 
deeply involved in the progress of the story. The hero of the book, the buccaneer par 
excellence, is a wonderful being, brave, chivalrous, tender and romantic, and his exploits 
are very properly made to surpass the exploits of common buccaneers like Kyd, or of 
brutal buccaneers like Blackbeard. It is, in short, a well-told romance, dealing largely 
with historical personages. It is full of adventure, and it will be found of absorbing 
mtoxQ^t.— Baltimore Sun, 


24 THE authors’ publishing company’s descriptive list. 


Our Wedding Gifts. 

By Amanda M. Douglas, author of Nelly Kinnard’s 
Kingdom,” ^‘From Hand to Mouth,” ‘Hn Trust,” “ Stephen 
Dane,” etc. Cloth extra, ink and gold; large square, 
12mo, 214 pp $1.00 

Of all the many works from this popular author’s pen — and by which her 
name has become a household word ” all over the country, for the sale of 
her books has already run into hundreds of thousands — probably no previous 
volume will compare with Our Wedding Gifts ” in real sparkle and brilliant 
lilts. 

A well-known vfvitQr— Chicago Tribune. 

Is a very clever novel — Baltimore Gazette. 

An amusing narrative.— Cincinnali Gazette. 

Will have a wide and delighted circle of readers.— Times. 

One of the best domestic novels we have read for several months.— Press. 

An amusing story, picturing the abuses of wedding giitB.— Columbus (6>.) State 
Journal. 

The amusing and annoying phases of the practice of wedding presents are cleverly 
hit o^.— Boston Journal. 

There is a great amount of practical good sense and needful, economic teaching in 
“ Our Wedding Gifts.” — Boston Traveller. 

Is very characteristic of this favorite author, whose works are welcomed by so many 
readers. It will doubtless be a favorite.— .Boston- Daily Globe. 

This is the latest and best production of Miss Douglas, whose previous stories have 
won her much favor. The book is admirably made. — N. Y. Mail. 

Many marriages that are “ happy ” might be made more so if the persons principally 
interested would take warning from the experiences here set fovth..— Church Union, N. Y. 

The young couple of the tale have some extraordinary experiences, and the sim- 
plicity, ignorance and misfortunes of the groom are told in a very amusing way. — Buffalo 
Courier. 

Miss Douglas ha^ apparently employed unusual care in the construction of the story, 
while it is not lacking in the qualities that usually give popularity to her productions.— 
American Baookseller. 

It is full of incidents, and is written with all the charm of the former books of the 
author, which have taken rank with the most useful as well as the most entertaining of 
American tales. — Newark Journal. 

The thousands of aclmirers of the gifted author can w^ell imagine the sparkling, racy 
manner in which she would write a story of this kind, and the humor as well as exquis- 
ite satire that pervades every page. — Boston Home Journal. 

An excellent story to illustrate an important theme. Weddings have tended to be- 
come a nuisance from the growing up of a custom of quinquennial celebrations of them 
each time, with an array of presents. Some sound sense on the subject has become 
desirable, and the reader will find it in this book.— Methodist, N. Y. 

Who has not trembled at the thought that there 'was a prospect of his being invited 
to a wedding, and the collapsed condition of his pocket-book forbade the purchase of 
such a gift as was possibly expected of him ? This volume aptly and wittily hits this 
custom. Adolphus Stryker, the Victim, is only an illustration of a large class, and his 
misfortunes are to be laughed at and enjoyed in the pleasant manner told in this story. 
— Inter-Ocean, Chicago. 

Miss Douglas has a neat power of satire in her. It displays itself beautifully in her 
treatment of the fashion of wedding gifts— wooden, tin, crystal, silver, and so forth— a 
system of taxation more unjust and oppressive than taxation without representation. 
Here is one of Miss Douglass’ little hits at hysterical women : 

“ The wise purpose of woman’s nerves may be hereafter revealed, but in this era of 
the M^orld they are shrouded by a dim and inscrutable Providence. Are they for pur- 
poses of self-defense, like a cat’s claws, sheathed 'H'hen all goes fair, but, at the moment 
of danger, bristling all over ? Would a w^oman, when a note was going to protest, rush 
to the bank, upbraid the official, and have a hysteric, I wonder ? This point ought to 
be settled on a firm and uncompromising basis before the equality of the sexes is deter- 
mined. ” — Cincinnati Com mercial. 


THE AUTHOKS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY’S DESCBIPTIVE LIST. 25 

In Dead Earnest. 

A Novel. By Julia Breckinridge. Cloth extra, large 
square 12mo, 239pp $1.25 

“ Skilful Plot — Pure, Excellent.” 

A novel of plot and incident.— JV*. F. Post. 

A pure and pleasant story. — Richmond, Va., State. 

Concisely expressed, and told in a direct sort of way that is entertaining. — 
Ptiila. Times. 

It is a creditable story, far better than many which come to us. It is con- 
structed with skill and told well. — Louisville Courier- Journal. 

We are glad to call attention to this pure and excellent story. The character 
of the heroine is that of one who is in “ dead earnest.*’ — Southern Churchman, 

“Virginians and Quakers— True to Life.” 

Characters and manners are vividly and faithfully sketched, and the plot, 
down to its conclusion, is well constructed and developed. — Daily Press, Phila- 
delphia. 

The character of Jasper, the heroine, is well conceived and portrayed. The 
calm demeanor and iron will of Aunt Hester are true to life. The story is a good 
one. — Indianapolis Journal. 

Is a romance of much quiet beauty. It is written in a graphic and thoughtful 
style. The characters are well drawn, and the interest of the story is well kept 
up. — Baltimore Daily Gazette. 

“The Work op a Master Hand.” 

It is a grand story, portraying life in Virginia and among the Quakers of 
Pennsylvania. The plot of the story is good, and shows the work of a master 
hand. The tale is told so charmingly that it will become very popular.— Free- 
burg. Pa., Courier. 

This is a story of life in the Old Dominion since the war. The author has laid 
the scenes principally on an old plantation named Sherwood*. The story is made 
interesting, and the introduction of some Southern negroes and scenes during 
the yellow fever at New Orleans make the narrative more effective. It is pub- 
lished in excellent style, the binding being specially attractive.— JV. F. Mail, 

“ The Thread op the Story.” 

Those who look for sensationalism in this novel, because of its title, will be 
disappointed. The plot is simple, the incidents of a quiet kind, and the char- 
acters altogether disposed to be friendly with each other, and loveable. The 
scene is laid partly in Pennsylvania, partly at the South, the feeling and senti- 
ment pervading the story being Southern. It is a pleasant noy^l.— Baltimore 
Sun. 

Jasper St. John, the heroine, is a Southern waif— an orphan child who is taken 
by her Quaker uncle to Philadelphia to raise and educate. At last, after many 
interesting episodes, she returns to Virginia as a governess, and the story of 
Southern life on a plantation is well told. Of course there is love and courtship, 
and the thread of the story unwinds very charmingly. — Methodist Protestant, 
Baltimore, 

“ Full op Interest from Beginning to End.” 

The plot is well laid, and the story is full of interest from beginning to end. 
The difference between the free and easy manner, we might say the rollicking 
ways, of the descendants of the cavaliers in the State that rejected the sway of 
“The Lord Protector” and clung to the unfortunate house of Stuart, and the 
staid and sober community that revere the memory of William Penn, is well de- 
scribed in an easy, flowing style, that is never stilted or pretentious. We rarely 
read novels now-a-days, but are happy to say, now that we have gone through 
this modest volume, that we greatly enjoyed it, and commend it to all lovers of 
fiction. — Lynchburg Virginian, 


46 


THE authors’ publishing COMPANY’S DESCRIPTIVE LIST. 


Few novel series have attained such unbounded popularity as the Satchel Series. They are found 
at every news-stand, in every bookstore, and in every railway train ; they were read by many 
tourists the pa^t summer, and were universally commended. — Mirror and American, Man- 
chester, N. H. 


THE SATCHEL SERIES. 

The atteDtion of the Trade is asked particularly to the Satchel 
Series ” as popular and fast-selling books. See preceding pages. 

Newsdealers and Railroad agents find them the most active and 
the most profitable stock they handle. 

^Everybody likes them. Every reader finds some volume in the 
Series to suit him. 

Doing a large business with this Series, and printing in very 
large editions, we make extra-special discounts on these books 
when ordered in quantities. 


order list of the satchel series. 


No. 24. . . Shortly. 

“ 23. Old Nick’s Campmeetin’. 50c. 

“ 22. One Little Indian 25c, 

“ 21. Vic 30c. 

“ 20. Persis 25c. 

“ 19. Ninety Nine Days ... 35c. 
‘‘ 18. Spiders & Rice Pudding 25c. 

“ 17. How it Ended 25c. 

** 16. Bera, or 0. &M. G. R. R 40c. 

“ 15. Glenmere 25c. 

“ 14. Poor Theophilus ...:. 25c. 
** 13. Only a Tramp 50c. 


No. 12. Who Did It? 30c. 

11. Our Peggotties. 25c, 

“ 10. Our Winter Eden 30 g. 

9. Nobody’s Business ....30c. 

8. Story of the Strike 30c. 

7. Lily’s Lover 35c. 

6. Voice of a Shell 40c. 

5. Rosamond Howard. 25c. 

4. Appeal to I loody (satire)lOc. 
3. Bonny Eagle 25c. 


“ 2. Prisons Without Walls 25c. 

“ 1. Traveller’s Grab Bag. . .25c. 


LATE CURRENT OPINION. 


Decidedly bright and entertaining tales. — Chicago Herald. 

Breezy, bright, little books, always unexceptionably pure in sentiment ; 
a trifle racy in style. — Cincinnati Commercial. 

Neat, clearly printed volumes, especially desirable as companions on a . 
journey of any kind. — Sunny South, Atlanta. 

Readable and amusing, and will help to enliven a wearisome journey. 
The type in which they are printed recommends them for railway read- 
ing. — American Bookseller. 

The convenient form of the books in this series, and their brevity, fit 
them especially for reading upon railway trains or in idle half-hours any- 
where. — N. Y. Ev. Post. 

The “Satchel Series” — a significant title, as the handy size, clear print, 
and reasonable length of each book seem to qualify it for being read in 
railway cars and slipped into the (^^^ni^t s^tch^, s|tf|rtly out of sight. 
— Phila. News. ( X O ’ ■ 

Remarkably clever little books, which doubtless find many interested 
readers. They are in compact and convenient form, just the thing for the 
sountry, and are light and frothy enough to be read on watering-place 
liotel verandas, or under the shade of sighing trees. The entire list is one 
that, as its name implies, is most convenient for the satchel of the tourist. 
—N. Y. Ev. Express. 


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